


A Different Call

by Kat713



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gore, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1540799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat713/pseuds/Kat713
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows Clint and Natasha from when he brought her to SHIELD and several of their missions together before the Avengers. Keeps as close to canon of both the movies and comics, with Natasha being much much older than she looks due to Red Room's experiments. Unsure if I'll be including Clint's family from Age of Ultron or not yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black Widow Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint finally catches up with the Black Widow.

… Clint PoV …

He's been watching her for fifteen days now. He'd followed her from Prague all the way to Moscow more than two thousand kilometers. A tiny beep sounds in his ear. He taps the little button on the com. "Hey, Coulson."

"Hawkeye. What's your status?"  
"Still watching. I think she knows I'm following her. She's skipped town five times since I started tailing her. Won't stay still for more than three days."  
"She's seen you?"

"No. I keep out of sight. She still hasn't found Stark's camera. I attached it when she went to pay the landlord the day she arrived in Nysa. I barely got out the window before the door opened. I don't know if it's habit for her or because of me but she's been sleeping with a knife under her pillow."  
"You watch her sleep?" Maria Hill's voice snapped out at him from several countries and a big ass ocean away. "Pervert."  
"What can I say, Hill? I'd rather watch her sleep than not and wake up to have her gun in my mouth."

"Is she that dangerous?" Coulson asked.  
"She's downright deadly. And we're not the only ones after her. That first night in Prague, two SUVs parked out front. The room was pitch black and I couldn't hear a peep from two doors over. Twelve men went in- two limped out." Coulson whistled.

"You know the plan, Hawkeye. Don't waste time and don't take risks. Do whatever you have to."  
"Yes, ma'am." Coulson chuckled.  
"She's a threat, Hawkeye." Hill barked, leaning in towards the mike to amplify her words. " _Eliminate the threat_." He almost yanked the piece from his ringing ear.  
"Fine. I'll move tonight. If you don't hear from me in five hours, you probably need to send someone else." Coulson made an approving noise.

"Five hours? What are you planning to do, take her out to dinner first?" He grit his teeth together. Hill was a hell of a woman and a fantastic agent but she was a hard ass sometimes.  
"Hill, she killed ten men without a single shot that first night and left them pilled in the guest room when she left. She knows I'm following her. She sleeps with a knife under her pillow and a gun on the nightstand. I need to get her when she's unprepared. Stop bitching. I'll get it done." He can hear her huff of resignation.

"Good luck, Hawkeye. Coulson out."

He hadn't been quite sure what to expect when Fury gave him this case. He'd just gotten back from a mission in Hat Yai, Thailand, collecting a briefcase he hadn't bothered to open. He hadn't even dropped off his bow and quiver yet, just climbed out of the chopper and dropped into the nearest chair. He'd been eyeing the coffee machine across the room when Fury tossed the folder to him. "Fury."  
"Barton. How was Hat Yai?"

"Hot." Fury settles into the chair across from him passing him a mug of coffee. Fury watches him stir packets of cream and sugar into his drink in silence. Clint speaks without looking up, "What is it, Fury?"

"I have a mission for you." Clint catches the edge of the photo that slid out of the folder and slips it out. _Hot damn_. "She's a Russian assassin and is causing us a lot of issues. We need you to neutralize the threat."

"How so?" he asks, thinking of his bow. Fury shrugs. 

"Whatever works."

"So what do we know about her?"

"She's known as the Black Widow" Clint's eyebrows arched. "Yeah. She's more than just a spy. We think she was trained by a Russian group similar to SHIELD. She's been at this for at least a decade." Clint looked back to the photo of her. "She's older than she looks. She specializes in close combat and making sure her enemies underestimate her. We've been after her for months. She keeps slipping away from us. I need your eyes on this, Hawkeye." Clint nods.

"When do I leave?"

"We've reason to believe she'll be arriving in Prague two days from now. This won't be an easy mission, Barton. She's good at hiding. If you can get a clean shot, take it, but she likely won't let you. She'll do everything she can to make it on her terms, and no offence, Hawkeye, but her terms usually leave everyone but her dead." He stood, slapping Clint on the shoulder, "Don't underestimate her."


	2. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint catches himself a spider and tries to convince her to leave with him.

… Clint PoV …

Hours later, after the sun had set, he crouched at the window for several minutes watching her breathing. The room was dark but he could still see the side of her face and the expanse of her naked back over the sheets. One hand lay under her head, the other under the pillow- _on her knife no doubt. I should do it from here_ , he thinks. He imagines the arrow piercing the center of her forehead or her back and knows he can't use the bow for this. She's too young, too good, too careful to kill in her sleep.

He slips his bow over his head and shoulder, the curtain barely shifting as he slides inside. Feet whispering over the hardwood floor, he might've felt like a child sneaking around for a peek at Christmas presents, if the woman wrapped in the bed before him were less lethal. _I'm an idiot. I'm going to get myself killed._ He fingers the knife at his hip and wonders if this is actually more like lassoing an angry crocodile. As he crept closer, reaching out for the gun on the nightstand, the hair on the back of his beck began to prickle. _Too easy,_ he thought. The second his fingertips touched the gun, her body snapped.

The hand under her pillow flashed out, knife held backwards. He wrapped his fingers around the gun just as she slammed the blade into his belly. The blade didn't pierce his knife vest but still hurt like hell. He let out a hoarse grunt and chucked the gun over their heads toward the window, while reaching for her knife hand. She grinned at him, all teeth and malice and shoved the heel of her other hand into his nose. His head whipped back as he slapped her knife hand away.

She brought her knees up, the sheet tangled around her legs and kicked out. He grunted, landing further away than he expected but rolled to his feet easily. She was already off the bed and halfway to her pistol, the sheet sprawled over the floor in her haste. He reacted fast, yanking his own handgun from its holster and leveling it at the back of her head. "Freeze." She stilled immediately at the sound of his voice, her naked back framed by the window, the gun a meter or so from her toes. She slowly raised her hands and looked over her shoulder at him, her face splitting into a wicked smile. It set him on edge.

 _She's good,_ he thought, keeping the gun trained on her head. He wanted to ignore her body and focus on her face. After all, it's dangerous to leave the other head in charge when in a dark room with a woman who just tried to shank you. But his training told him that he needed to watch her body language carefully. He expected her to make a try for one of the pistols or to even try to make a move on him- he briefly wondered how the hell he'd react to that. She did neither, simply turning to stand before him, hands in the air, smiling and unmoving. "Drop the knife." He still sounded winded and this made her eyes crinkle and her smile grow a bit. She drops the knife. "Kick it over." She did so gracefully. The blade gently bumped the tip of his boot. She rolls her shoulders a bit as he tucks it in his belt.

"So. You're the one who has been following me?"

He nodded. "You were damned hard to follow-"  
"But not hard enough?" he wonders if there was an innuendo there or if he's just imagining it. She cocks her head. "American. Unusual. You're too good to be with them."

"I'm not. With them." Her eyebrows rise. He doesn't move.

"And you know who I'm talking about?" she asks, condescendingly.

"The men from Nysa." Her eyes narrow. "Twelve went in. Two came out. You left at dawn." Her fingers twitched and he was suddenly very glad he'd revealed that _after_ relieving her of of her knife. "Now, I enjoy life as much as the next guy, but I'm not alone. You kill me and hundreds more will be after you." For just a second, she scowls at him dangerously before it quickly washes away. "You are a threat to my organization. I was told to eliminate the threat."

"And yet we stand here."

He nods. "You're good at what you do. Leave this behind and-" she lets out a bark of laughter, throwing her head back.

"And what? Sit in an underground prison for the rest of my life? I'd rather go out fighting." And with that, she threw herself behind the bed, arm snapping out for her gun. He leapt on the bed in a single step and fired. She lay on her back on the crisp white sheets covering the floor, her hand just ghosting over her gun, a fist sized hole in the floor just to the right of her temple. It seemed to him that she was looking at him as a real threat now, for the first time.

"This isn't a come on, Romanov." Her eyelid twitched. He leveled the gun on her face. "I'm an assassin. You've got two choices. You run from here and they will send others to kill you. Or-" her eye twitched again, "you leave the private business. Commit to my organization and work for us."

"And if I refuse?"

"Not even we can force an assassin to do a job. But you would have to start over. Be under our watch, abide by our laws, try not to kill anyone-" she smirked. "and if you betray us, you won't be able to hide."

She said nothing, eyes running over him for a few moments. After several dozen heartbeats he began to feel a little ridiculous with his huge boots crumpling her white sheets, her on her back buck naked. He cleared his throat and her eyes snapped back to his. "I've said my piece and don't really want to shoot a naked woman on her back," her eyebrows rose again, "but I will if I have to. Take your hand off the gun." She complied, but locked her jaw angrily. Her small hand fell over her stomach and for a fleeting second he followed the movement. _God damn._ When he looked back up to her face she was smiling. She'd noticed. He cleared his throat again and stepped off the bed and to the floor, his boots landing beside her pale hip. He noticed her eyes sharply moving up his leg and around the room- assessing her surroundings. His training told him she was looking for ways to escape. His brain reminded him that he reacted the same way when he went to the bar. _She's not so different. She just picked the wrong side._ When he sat down on the bed and lowered his gun slightly, she lifted her head and her eyebrows drew together in confusion. "I just asked you to leave the dark side, Romanov. Don't you have any more snide remarks?" her face twitched again. "Or questions?" Her eyes flash to his again. She laid her head back lightly, staring up at the ceiling.

"Roman _off_." She said quietly.

"Excuse me?"

"I go by Romanoff now." He shrugged.

"The report wasn't very specific."

"Undoubtedly." A small smile played at her lips as she glanced at him. "I assume you cannot tell me the name of this organization of yours?"

"Not yet."

"Yet?" he shrugged

"Your decision."

"Does your organization often send their people on missions like this one?" he laughed.

"You're my first of this kind. So, no. Not often."

"Should I feel flattered?"

"Either that or threatened. Maybe a little of both." Her eyes flicked to the gun in his hands and back to his face. He shrugged again. "Just saying." She nodded slightly.

"You said 'work for you'. What kind of work?"

"That depends on how trustworthy you are. You're a spy and an assassin after all."

"And how do you determine how trustworthy I am?"

"Interviews. Tests. Psychologists. After you clear those they'll send you on a mission."

"What kind of mission?" she asked staring at the ceiling again.

"A small one. It won't be too dangerous or too important. You'll be with another agent. Probably me." Her eyes fly to his. "When we return we'll both give a report. It will be up to me to recommend or oppose your going on another mission…" she noticed his pause and turned her head to face him. His eyes seemed colder than before. "If your loyalty sways I will be ordered to take you down." She almost shivered in the breeze from the window.  
"And if it doesn't?"

"If I find you valuable to the mission you'll go on more. They'll become more dangerous, more difficult and more important. After a determined amount of time, you'll be entrusted with your own."

"This doesn't sound rehearsed." His brows lowered in misunderstanding. "Did someone say this to you once?" she noticed his jaw clench.

"A version. I wanted to be a good guy. Wanted to help people." He expected her to scoff but she remains silent. "Got involved in some crime. Got out of my league. I got on the government's radar in a bad way. I was cuffed to a table in an Atlanta police department when they sent an agent in to talk to me. They gave me a way out. A place to live, a job, a way to make a difference."

"And you do make a difference?"

"We do what we can."

"And how can a spy help the good guys?"

"Hey. I said good guys. I never said we play fair." She nods, grinning, staring back up at the ceiling. He waits.

"There's really only two options here that end well for me isn't there?"

"Pretty much." She nods and sits up. His finger tenses on the trigger for a second and she notices.

"I just want to put on some clothes before we leave. You are taking me back to the states, I assume?" he nods and moves to the window. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, his pistol pointed down and watches the streets outside for several moments. He freezes when he notices the man on the roof across from them.

"You expecting company?"

"No, why-" her sentence is cut short as the door slams open and into the dresser she'd just been emptying. Two people make it through the door before she kicks it shut with a crash. He crosses the length of the room, pulling his knife from the sheath on his calf as she kicks one of them, ducking a punch from the other. He sinks his knife into the calf of the closest one, following him to the floor where he slams his head down.

When he looks up she's got her thighs wrapped around the other guys face and with a twist of her hips she sends his face flying at the floor and lands on her feet, arms up, ready for more. He's about to compliment her when the door slams open again and gunfire sounds. Before they even cross the threshold, she has someone's arm twisted backwards and jams her elbow into the bone with a crack. The gun clatters to the floor and as she follows it the butt of a heavy pistol slams into her skull. She slumps the floor as the last man advances on Clint, shouting something in Russian. He holds his hands up in surrender- _live today, fight tomorrow_. And then she moves. Before the Russian has time to turn on her, she's swept his legs out from under him with her own and has a gun at the base of his skull and a knee on his spine. "Who sent you?"

Clint gets to his feet rolling his shoulders and watches the other men. The man she first dropped is reaching for his gun when Barton's foot lands on his fingers. "You'll want to answer the lady. She fights dirty." She pressed the gun barrel further into his skull and he sputtered out a few sentences in Russian. She thanks him before slamming his face into the floor. He knocks out the other two while she gathers their weapons. It's not until he turns to her then that he realizes, she's only wearing jeans and a bra. She smirks at him and goes back to her dresser, stepping over the unconscious men on her floor like she did this everyday- _hell, she probably does_. He clears his throat. "While that's impressive and I'm grateful you didn't let him shoot me, I'll need those weapons." She stills and turns to him, one of their guns dangling from her fingertip.

"Still scared of me, then?" she asks grinning.

"You wish. I just watched you drop 4 armed men without breaking a sweat. Even if I can handle you, I'm trained to be cautious."

"Cautious? Or paranoid?" he shrugs.

"Same thing." Her grin widens and she sets the gun on top of the dresser and backs away, hands up while he collects the guns and knives. She leans against the wall watching him as he fills every knife strap and gun hostler he has and still has two knives tucked into his belt and a gun in each hand.

"Looks as if you're ready to start your own war."

"I might have to if we run into anymore of your old friends." He says, stepping back to the edge of the window while she yanks on a large sweater and shoves everything else into a duffel bag on the floor.

"Am I allowed any of those weapons or will I have to use the ones I was born with if we run into more friends?"

He shoots her a skeptical look and says "Like you really need anything else." But he tosses her a knife anyway. She catches it easily and straps it to her thigh under the oversized sweater. He points to her, allowing the barrel of the gun to swing down to the floor, "I like you, but as soon as we get to my vehicle you'll need to give that up. If you give me any reason to fear you, I will kill you." He expected her to shudder at the threat- he'd never given one like that to a woman. But she didn't even blink.

"Then it's a good thing you're not afraid of me then, hmm?" her smirk was gone but he would bet she was still laughing at him in her head. And then she's pulling on socks and shoes, gathering her laptop bag, duffel, and coat and staring at him. "Shall we?"  
"Ladies first." He says, folding his bow up using one hand and his thigh and tucking it in his jacket.

"You just don't want me behind you." She says smiling at him over her shoulder.

"Just move, Romanoff." He says, nudging her in the back with the butt of his gun. She heads to the stairs, surreptitiously watching the doors along the hall. When he closes the door behind them he grabs her arm. "You have anything to cover up with? You kind of stand out." She shrugs into her thick coat, pulling the hood up over her head. As they emerge from the back door, he tosses his arm over her should and leans in close "Play along". She tenses for a second before leaning in to kiss his cheek. He blinks at her once before falling back into character. "There's a sniper on a roof at 3 o'clock. Christ, woman, what did you do to these people?" she shrugs.

"Can't remember." He's pretty sure she's lying but doesn't care. He leads them down the street, one hand over her shoulder, the other on the gun in his pocket. When they reach the old home several blocks away she raises her eyebrows. "I imagined Headquarters would be more impressive."

"Shut up." He tells her, pushing her in and locking the door behind them. He checks the windows and back door before pulling her up the stairs and into the bedroom with him. She hesitates at the doorway, glancing from him to the bed.

"But, I don't even know your name, handsome." She says coyly. He wonders if she's just fucking with him at this point. He rolls his eyes, moving to the window to gather his things. He manages to shove all the files (her files, as it were) into a folder before she notices them. He lays his bow and quiver on the table. She picks it up, lightly. "You any good with this?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." He says, taking it from her to pack away. "The knife?" she hands it to him and he packs it away with his bow. He turns to her, pointing. "Now, sit down, shut up, and try not to give me more reasons to shoot you." He presses a finger to his ear. Coulson answers immediately.

"Hawkeye. Did you finish the job?" Clint sighs, grateful Hill isn't around.

"Didn't go quite as planned, sir. She's good at what she does. I think we could benefit from her… skill set." She flashes him a smile. "I'll vouch for her."

"You plan on telling Nick Fury that you want him to hire the assassin we've been chasing for six months?"

"Sounds about right." Clint imagined Coulson pinching the bridge of his nose. "I know the consequences here. I'll deal with them if it comes to that. Where can we meet you?"

"Passports, a rental car and directions are on their way to you now. They'll be delivered tomorrow by an unrelated party. I hope you know what you're doing, Hawkeye."  
"Me too. See you soon."

"So it's my skill set that impresses you so much, huh?" she asks, shrugging out of her heavy coat. He sighs, heavily.

"Look, lady. You're testing my patience. I didn't stay alive this long by being stupid enough to fall into bed with a woman nicknamed Black Widow so you can cut the shit." Her eyes narrow dangerously. "I'm still not one hundred percent certain you aren't going to backstab me and steal off into the night the second I turn away so it isn't going to work." She sits back to watch him evenly and he briefly wonders if she's fantasizing about taking him out with her thighs- damn sure he is, even if he'd never admit it. He shakes his head and sighs. "I'm starving. You eat pizza or just the bodies of your enemies?"

She blinks at him a few times before smirking. "Pizza sounds fantastic." After he dials the number he drops into a chair at the table, propping his leg up on the opposite one.

"So," he says, twirling one of his arrows around his fingers, "where'd you lean to do the gymnastic tricks?" she raises an eyebrow, confused. "You know. The flipping-guys-over-with-nothing-but-your-thighs-thing." She smirks looking away and sighing.

"To be honest, I don't remember." He looks at her, confused. "I've been an acrobat for as long as I can remember. I used to be a ballerina and was in gymnastics too… well… at least I thought so." He holds up a hand.

"Sorry, I'm completely lost." She looks away from him, at the wall and takes a deep breath.

"I suppose your organization will need to know everything about my past?" he nods, "Very well. My memories are blurry, faulty. I can remember my parents and ballet classes and a terrible fire but… one day I woke up after a concussion and had all new memories. I was trained by a secret organization. They did things to make me stronger, make me heal faster and age slower. They deploy each of their agents with false memories to protect themselves. I've never been able to find that organization again. I can't tell which memories are real and which aren't." when she looks back at him, it's kind of a wonder his jaw isn't on the floor.

"My people can help you." She lifts one foot up to rest on the bed, resting her chin on her knee.

"Maybe. But there you go. That's why I'm so good at what I do. I was raised to be what I am. I don't know how to do anything else." He stares at her silently for several long moments.

"My code name is Hawkeye. I ran away to join the circus when I was six." _Oh my god, I'm a fucking idiot._ Her eyes snap back to his. "I was an orphan." _Well, might as well go on and say it now. Can't do much more damage at this point._ "That's where I learned archery."

"This is a harsh field for a circus performer."  
"It's a pretty harsh field for a ballerina." She snickers and relaxes a little but when the doorbell rings, she's got his knife in hand before he can blink. He peeks out the window. "Pizza. It'd be less hassle just to pay the man." She sighs, shaking her head.

"I suppose so." She says, as he follows her down the stairs. She translates for him and pizza boy and then let him nudge her back up the stairs. He thinks she's laughing that the fact that he doesn't like her behind him but doesn't really care.

After finishing a few slices of pizza, she wipes her hands and looks up to him from across the table. "Do you really think your organization will want me?" she asks suddenly. He chokes on his pizza a little.

"You don't go for small talk do you? And yeah. The second they see what you can do they'll want you." He yawns, closing the lid on the pizza box. "Now, I'm getting tired and our tickets out of here will be here in a few hours. Please tell me I don't have to worry about you stabbing me while I'm asleep." She snickers and his eyes narrow. "I'm not joking, Romanoff. I'm risking a lot bringing you back alive. Don't make me regret it." She stares at him for several long seconds before nodding.

"I understand." He nods curtly.

"Good." He strips off his shirt before lying down. She's still sitting at the table, her head resting on her fist. "Aren't you tired?" she nods. "The bed is big enough for us both, if you're interested." Her eyes snap to him and he shrugs. "Up to you." He stares at the ceiling as she pulls off her sweater and shimmies out of her jeans, before pulling on a tank top. She slides in the bed next to him lying on her side facing him. He turns to her. "And don't even think about putting a weapon under your pillow tonight." She nods, staring at him. "You could really confuse a man, you know?"

"How so?"

"I get the feeling you flirt because you're a spy, not because you're interested." Her face remains neutral. "But then you stare at me like that and I can't tell if you're counting the ways you could kill me or wondering what I look like naked." She snorts. He just made the most deadly assassin in the world snort- because he suggested that she might wonder what he looked like under his shorts.

"Would it comfort you to know that it's a little of both?" his brain stalls for a few seconds.

"I'm not sure how I should feel about that." She shrugs.

"Me neither. Good night, Hawkeye." And she rolls over and is asleep almost instantly.


	3. Homebase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha meets Coulson and learns how things are done at SHIELD.

… Natasha PoV …

She wakes suddenly and completely, like always. She's lying on her side and can feel his arm against her back. She turns to him and isn't really surprised to see he's still asleep. She gently climbs out of the bed and gathers a few things from her bag, heading off to shower. As she washes her hair, she briefly wonders how she would react if he walked in on her. She was naked when she met him after all. It had been a long time since she'd met a spy that impressed her but he had. Following her for as long as he had was an achievement enough. She shrugged. He was certainly attractive enough but he was also dangerous. He hadn't planned to kill her after they talked, not really. If he had, he would have used his bow and she'd likely be dead.

When she exits the bathroom, he's pulling on his boots and checking his weapons. "Ready to bounce this joint?" he asks, slipping his last gun into his jacket pocket. "If anyone asks, we're newlyweds. You're moving back to the states with me. Learn the name on your passport. You'll probably have to translate for me every now and then." He locks the door behind them and tosses his bags in the back seat of the SUV waiting outside. "So. Is it unusual for you to have at least two different parties break into your bedroom and try to kill you or has this just been an eventful two weeks?" he asks pulling onto the road.

"I've had better." He chuckles- "but I've also had worse." He glances at her quickly. She meets his gaze steadily. "I've been doing this for a long time. I haven't made many friends."

"Maybe that will change someday." She shrugs noncommittally. They stop at a grocery store for food and drinks for the road.

After finishing her sandwich she tucks the wrappings into the bag and turns to him. "Are you allowed to tell me where we are going or would you have to kill me first?"

"I'll be honest, I have no idea where the hell I am. I'm just following the GPS. They mentioned it being near Shayera-"

"Sharya. And we are supposed to meet them there?" he nods.

"Yep."

After several hours, she's beginning to get restless. "I can drive, if you'd like." She suggests. He snickers.

"No offence, Hot Sauce, but I'm still going to need a little bit more time to trust you." She narrows her eyes at the nickname but doesn't say anything. The only people who have ever called her nicknames were marks. And they were usually dead not long after that. She watched the landscape around them fondly. She would miss Russia.

"Can you tell me where in America we will be?" he shrugs.

"Changes all the time."  
"What about your missions? Can you tell me about those?"

"It's pretty standard military stuff for most folks but I'm a bit special. Every now and then there's a person that needs to be eliminated discretely. I'm the best archer in the world. Do the math."

"Best archer in the world? Don't you think that's a little presumptuous?" he slides a dirty look her way.

"Prove me wrong, and I'll gladly take it back." She leans back in her seat yawning. Her constant running had exhausted her but he seemed perfectly fine. He sat pin straight with both hands on the wheel. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes were fixed on the road but she had the feeling he was still watching him out of the corner of his eye. Hawkeye. Huh. She wondered if his eyes had been genetically enhanced somehow. She wouldn't be surprised. There wasn't really much that surprised her these days. Her job- her life- depended on being able to change directions at a moment's notice, to react to any and every situation in the way that ensured the least possible damage, to the plan, to her cover, to herself. "Careful there. Keep staring and you might just miss something interesting." he said, smirking.

They'd arrived. There was a helicopter in the grass before them. Three men stood beside it. The two on either side were obviously her guards- they carried large guns and wore vests. The man between them was in a suit and tie but she recognized the bulge made by his shoulder holster. She was tense as she exited the vehicle. She didn't know what to expect. That was rare. Would they drug her, blindfold her? Did she dare turn her back on them? "Romanoff. Relax. I swear I won't let them shoot you in the back. Trust me." Her eyes snapped to his face. Had she been that apparent? She was slipping. She nodded to him curtly, keeping her face an impassive mask. They opened the back doors and grabbed their bags before walking over to the chopper. She noticed a man already sat at the controls. "Coulson," Hawkeye greeted the man in the middle. He held his hand out to her. "meet Natasha Romanoff, the infamous Black Widow." She stared at his hand for another second before clasping it.

"Agent Phil Coulson. Nice to meet you Ms. Romanoff." His grip was strong, confident. Either he hadn't read her file or he wasn't afraid of her. And Agent Coulson didn't seem the type to skim a report. He stepped to the side and gestured to the cabin of the chopper. "Ladies first, ma'am." It set her teeth on edge to have all of them behind her but pushed the feeling away, hauling herself into the vehicle. She shoved her bags under the seat as her eyes scanned the cabin, noting the locations of parachutes and radios, studying the way the pilot handled the controls. Hawkeye and the armed men sat down across from her. Coulson said a few words to the pilot before sticking his finger in his ear. He bowed his head covering one ear to listen better over the chopper blades. He turned to her, grabbing the bar along the ceiling. "You're fine for now, Ms. Romanoff but once we near American airspace we'll have to cover your face to protect our location. I'm sure you understand." Hawkeye's lip twitched up into a slight smirk. "Once we touch down I'll have to cuff you." She simply nodded. If she needed to defend herself, handcuffs wouldn't be much of a hindrance. "Understandable. Thank you, Agent Coulson." he blinked in surprise. Suits always seemed shocked when she was polite. They expected her to be cautious, calculating, cold blooded- not that she wasn't- she just hid it well.

"You'll be given temporary housing on base and will be assigned a guard. You'll be interviewed shortly after you arrive. Hawkeye will remain on base for the next several days to assess your skills and responses. Over time you'll be granted more freedoms, American citizenship, and a new cover if needed. If you become a member of our team you'll receive health benefits, compensation and training." She blinked at him. _Too good to be true_ , she thought.

"And if I decide not to join your team?" Coulson's jaw stiffened.

"You will be set up in the states with a new identity and citizenship. You will be constantly monitored. You may live as you like but if we have reason to distrust you, you will be taken into custody. If you have become a threat, we will be forced to neutralize that threat." Somehow the words felt much more chilling coming from Agent Coulson's mouth than from Hawkeye's. At least back in Moscow she'd been sure he had intended to kill her. She wasn't sure if Coulson wanted her on his team or wanted her dead. Uncertainly left a bad taste in her mouth. For the rest of the trip she proceeded to imagine various ways she could go about incapacitating the four armed men surrounding her. She'd have to keep the pilot conscious, she wasn't sure if she'd be able to fly this thing. She'd been imagining disarming Coulson and using his own handcuffs on him when he politely cleared his throat. He pulled what looked like a black pillowcase out of his jacket pocket. Her eyebrows rose.

"Always carry that around, do you? Keep it with the cuffs, I suppose?" Across from her, Hawkeye barked out a laugh before feigning a coughing fit. Coulson, to his credit, gave a little chuckle but still turned red. The guards remained stoic.

"Very funny, Ms. Romanoff. Now if you, please." He extended the covering and she bowed her head. He was much gentler than the last man that covered her face. That sack had been burlap and less than an hour after he shoved it over her head, he lay dead at her feet. She listened for the rest of the ride. She'd allowed them to blind her but she could still hear them. She noted the rustle of Coulson's suit. He was restless. The guards remained still as usual. Hawkeye was silent and she had the feeling he was still watching her- judging her reactions. She heard the radio crackle to life as the pilot announced their arrival in American air space. Within seconds she felt them losing altitude. _That was quick._ The base must be on the shore, she realized. Over the sound of the chopper, she could hear the scuttle of activity on the ground outside.

Coulson coughed awkwardly. "Ma'am." she held her wrists out. At the metallic click, she rolled her wrists. Good quality. Getting out of them would be painful. A hand landed on her arm, gently pulling her to her feet. Hawkeye. She recognized the shape of his hand. She rose easily, rolling her shoulders. It was warmer here than in Moscow. "C'mon then. Guests first." he said leading her across the cabin floor. "Step down." he said as he exited the chopper. She stepped down, toes searching. Concrete. Then it's a permanent base. Was that engines she could hear? A secret airport then. Nice. She could hear the ocean very close by.

"Hawkeye." a sharp female voice barked. "Nice of you to join us again."

"Hill," Hawkeye greeted her. She felt him gesture to her with the hand that wasn't wrapped around her upper arm. "meet Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow." Natasha held her hand out, the cuffs dragging her second hand out too. Hawkeye stifled another laugh. The other woman took her hand tightly, perhaps a little more so than was strictly usual.

"Agent Maria Hill." she said stiffly.

"Ah. Agent Hill." Coulson said, climbing from the helicopter. She hadn't heard them but was sure that her two guards still stood behind her. "Could you let Fury know we've arrived?" She made a small noise of consent before striding off. Natasha almost flashed a grin under the dark hood. It seemed that having a Russian assassin on base made Agent Hill a little antsy. Hawkeye lead her away from the chopper and into the shade of the building. It seemed rather busy and loud for a secret base.

She cataloged each twist and turn they took, recalling how many steps were between doorways and passkey points. Hawkeye pulled out a metal chair, pushed her into it and yanked the cover off her head. She shook her hair out of her face, looking around. Her guards flanked the door, Coulson sat across from her and Hawkeye pulled out a chair to sit between them. She glanced down at the cuffs and back up to Coulson. "Sorry, Ms. Romanoff. They're a necessary precaution." He pulled a manila folder out of his briefcase and folded his hands above it, watching her. "Now. If you could give me a list of your greatest skills, I can make note of them and we'll see which department would benefit the most from your skill set."

She takes a deep, slow breath and rests her arms on the table before starting. "I'm an expert at hand to hand and can accurately shoot any gun I've ever held." he pulls out a pen and notepad, writing it all down. "I can put on any cover and make you believe it's real. I can always find the information I want. I'm a gymnast and have training in karate, judo, aikido and boxing. I can hack several kinds of electronic security." she glances up at the armed men at the door and smiles a little, recalling Hawkeye's words from the day before "And I can clear a room full of armed men without breaking a sweat." she'd expected... something. But Coulson just keeps writing and Hawkeye just stares at them wearing a half smile.

"Is that all, Ms Romanoff?" she hesitates for just a second.

"I think, move and heal faster than most. I was biotechnologically enhanced by a secret Russian group." That stalls his pen, if only for a second. "I was taken in by them as a child. My memories of then are blurry, distorted. They release each agent with false memories to protect themselves. I'm not sure what my real name or birthday is. I can't even be sure of how old I am." Coulson gently lays his hand on hers, his fingers rattling the cuffs.

"You won't be forced to work for us. We will still help you in any way we can." Her head drops. She's so tired of wondering what memories are real and which aren't. Can she really trust them to help her? _Why not?_ She asks herself, tiredly. If they turn on her she could easily escape, like she's done a thousand times before. She looks up into Coulson's eyes.

"I want on your team." he nods.  
"Hawkeye. Please escort Ms Romanoff to her quarters. She is in room 305." Hawkeye rises from his chair easily, running a hand through his hair. He holds the door open for her. The guards follow close behind them.

"I can't take your cuffs off yet but I suppose you don't need me dragging you here and there now, do you?" she shakes her head, watching the people pass her. Most wore some kind of suit, similar to Hawkeye's. They all bore a round eagle emblem. "You should have time to unpack before you meet the director. Someone's already taken your things to your room. Someone will be by shortly with a bite to eat. Do yourself a favor and don't give them a reason to distrust you." With that, he turned on his heel and closed the door between them, one of her guards glaring at her over his shoulder.


	4. Meet and Greet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint defends his decision to Fury.

… Clint PoV …

 _I'm dead. Dead and buried. Fury is going to rip me a new one_ , he realizes, walking back to the bridge. Fury stands rigid at the computer screens, hands clasped behind his back. Hill stands next to him, pointing at one of the screens. Clint clears his throat. Fury says a few words to Hill before turning around. He looks calm but Clint knows he's pissed. "Hill, Agent Barton and I will be in Interrogation room 14." He says, brushing past Clint without even glancing at him. Feeling a lot like a scorned child, Clint follows him from the bridge and down the hall. Silently, they pull out chairs and sit down across from each other. _Will he fire me over this? Where the hell does that leave me?_ Fury pulls out the notes that Coulson had taken out of a manila folder. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Clint slows his breathing. He liked SHIELD, sure, but there were other places that would hire him. A stab of regret sparks through him. _Romanoff. Oh god, he's going to make me shoot her in cold blood. After I asked her to trust me._ "Barton," Fury said, "I can all but hear your brain going a mile a minute. Slow down and talk to me." Clint took a slow breath and nodded.

"Yes, sir."

"I have to say, Barton, I don't recall saying you were allowed to keep her. I ordered you to eliminate her."

"I made a different call."

"I can damn well see that. _Why?_ "

Clint only hesitated for a split second. "She's more use to us alive than dead. She's good at what she does." "She's a spy for hire, Hawkeye." Fury snapped, his voice rising.

"And she was hired by the wrong team. How many SHIELD agents do you know that were girl scouts before they were recruited?"

Fury takes a deep breath, glaring at him. "She's your responsibility, Barton. You train her, you test her, you watch her." Fury raises a finger to his face. "And if she turns on us, you'll be the one to take her down. If she betrays us, you are to kill her, Barton." Clint nods soberly. Fury starts jotting notes down on a piece of paper before him. "I'm taking you off the mission log. You'll train her full time. First, learn what she can do and what she knows. Get her into a training regimen. I want to see her shoot, fight, and hide. Teach her all protocols and drill her on them. I want a psych evaluation every two weeks for the first three months. I will do an evaluation by the end of the week. I expect you both to be mission ready by then. Make it happen, Barton." He tapped his earpiece. "Bring her in Coulson." a few moments later, Coulson arrived followed by Black Widow and five armed men. Fury's eyebrow rose in question.

"Just a precaution, sir." Clint recognized the small smirk at the corner of his mouth. "I heard she can clear a room full of men in a few seconds." Clint stands and holds the chair out for her. She tries to hide it but he catches the quick glare of distrust she sends him before sitting. He sits between her and Fury.  
"Leave the guards outside the door, Coulson." Fury says, watching her. She stares right back at him, face emotionless. When the door clicks closed, Fury holds his hand out. "Widow. You've made quite a name for yourself." She doesn't even blink. "I'm Director Fury." She shakes his hand, the cuffs rattling against the metal table between them. "It's nice to finally meet you." She nods.

"And you, Director Fury. But Black Widow is my field name. I go by Natasha Romanoff when I'm off mission."

"And is that your real name?" Fury asks, readying his pen. She shakes her head.

"The earliest name I remember responding to is Natalia Romanova." she blinks and he thinks he sees her mask slip for a second. "But I can't be certain that's my real name." Fury sets his pen down and looks at her for a long moment, pity in his eye. Clint's knee jerk reaction is to warn him. It seems like a monumentally bad idea to let the Black Widow think you pity her.

"You're from Red Room," her mask vanishes, her eyes narrowing and brow tightening. "aren't you?" the room is deathly silent for a second. _Red Room? What the hell is that?_

"I've never- I thought I was the only one who knew about them. They killed anyone else who knew."

"But they never came after you?" Fury asks her. _Pretty sure she could handle them if they tried, Fury_ , he thinks. He almost expects her to laugh but her face is back to the unreadable mask.

"They tried."

Fury nods. "The implanted memories?" Clint glances at Fury quickly. _Christ, how much did he leave out of that report?_

"A botched mission gave me a concussion. I passed out with one set of memories. Woke up with another. Took off before they came after me."

"And they don't know you are here?"

"Director Fury, I don't even know where here is." Clint chuckled. _Yeah right._

"Bet you have a good idea though, don't you?" Clint says, watching her and smirking. She glances between Fury and Clint before nodding.

"Let's hear it then." Fury says, settling back in his chair.

"North America, east coast, on the shore. It's an air base but is supposed to be secret." Fury snickers.  
"Well, I have to say, you won't be able to see the outside of the base for a few days at least." He said, shuffling his papers together. "We have to be certain of your loyalty before you get more information about our organization. Agent Barton will be in charge of your training. I expect you both to be prepared for any mission I can throw at you in one week." He stood, holding his hand out to her again. She and Clint rose from their seats simultaneously. She shook Fury's hand firmly. He nods to them, turning away. He stops at the door and glances back at Natasha. "Good luck, Ms. Romanoff." She turned to Clint.

"When do we start?"

"Today." She nodded, satisfied. "We'll get patched up in the infirmary." She cut a dark glance his way. "Hey, don't look at me like that. That's the way it goes here. You get back from a mission, you debrief and then go to the infirmary. Lesson one, Widow. Try to keep up." They step through the door and he addresses the guards. "She's with me. If I need you, I'll call." He fishes a key out of his pocket, unlocks her cuffs and tosses them to one of the guards. "Make sure Coulson gets those back." And taking her elbow, he leads her down the hall again.


	5. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha gets her new gear and does some sparring on her first day at SHIELD.

… Natasha PoV …

He introduces her to the Chief Medical Officer, Doctor Reid and sits on the bed across from her while the doctor pokes and prods at the back of her head. It made her uneasy but his fingers were light and methodical. If she had anyone to fear here, it was more likely to be the man in front of her rather than the one behind her. A nurse comes to check Hawkeye over. He winces when she poked at his nose but she pronounced it unbroken. "Well," Reid said snapping his gloves off, "There's no blood. You've got a hell of a bump though, and probably a headache to match." He gives her a few painkillers for the headache while the nurse across from her gently prods at the large bruises over Hawkeye's ribs. He glared at her and she had to hide a vindictive smirk.

Reid moves to stand beside her with a pen and clipboard asking her questions and taking note of her answers while the nurse poked at Hawkeye. Much sooner than she expected, Reid was shaking her hand again and congratulating them on a mission that ended in no spilt blood - _from us at least_ , Natasha amended silently.

"So." she said as they made their way out of the infirmary "Does Agent Barton have a first name?" he smirked. "Clint." she nodded.

"Where to now, then?"

He glanced down at her sweater and jeans. "We're going to do some training. And you don't want to fight in that, do you?"

"Fight? Aren't you afraid to fight me again so soon?" he scoffed "Would Director Fury find it appropriate? Or should I have more time to sufficiently prove my loyalty?"

"Fury knows I can handle you. And you should too." she doesn't miss the glimmer of a challenge in his eyes.  
"That wasn't a fair fight. I was naked and unarmed." he snorts.

"Unarmed my ass. That didn't stop you from mopping the floor with those men twenty minutes later." she grins, proudly for a moment.

He leads her to a room near what sounds like the shooting range. It's just a little closet filled with shelves stacked full of clothing, uniforms, and vests. "Grab a few of everything in your size and we'll head over to the gym." The gym is huge, with treadmills, weight benches, and other various machines along two of the walls. Three boxing rings ran through the center of the room and there were several smaller matted areas scattered around. There's two soft drink fountains and a few tables and chairs against one wall and the entrances to the locker rooms and showers against the opposite wall. There were a few people on the machines and a few at the tables but it was quiet. When she exits the locker room after changing she notices him on the closest mat, stretching. She joins him silently and they spend several moments doing various stretches.

"So I'm going to have to see what you can do before I can train you." he says standing fluidly. He holds his hand out to help her up and she takes it. "We'll start simple. First with both shoulders on the mats loses." she slides into a defensive stance, arms up. He mimics, grinning. They simply watch each other for a moment before she strikes. He dodges her quickly and slams his hand into her side- open palmed. _He's going easy on me_ , she realizes. Her anger only makes her faster. She aims a punch to his jaw, knowing he will block her. When her fist meets his forearm, she wraps her fingers around his arm and uses all her weight to swing him to the left. He knocks her in the jaw pretty hard but she kicks the backs of his knees and then she's riding him to the floor, her thighs whipping up to clamp around his throat. He chokes a bit but is still smiling when she releases him.

"Fuck." he rasps out, "What a way to go." An approving sound escapes her throat as she rises from her knees, rubbing her jaw.

"Noticed you stopped with the open handed hits pretty quickly."

"Mmmm," he says, rubbing his throat, already sliding back into his stance "well now I know better, huh?" she grins at him, showing her teeth. She feels like a wild cat circling a wolf. He comes after her first this time, kicking at her shin. She slides away from the kick but he follows with a hard punch to the shoulder. She rotates with the momentum and when he bear hugs her from behind she slams her head back into his skull. _Oh_ **fuck** _that was a bad idea._ She's blinded by pain for a second and it's all he needs. Before she can break his hold, she's face first on the mat and he's clutched one of her wrists in each hand far to her sides. He laughs, leaning close to her ear. "Beat that, Princess." Her heart is racing and all her training is screaming to her to do something- attack, threaten, seduce, _something_ \- but she ignores it and shoves back with one shoulder. He rolls off her, rubbing his forehead.

She takes longer than usual to get to her feet, the pain in her head now throbbing with her heartbeat. He's already in his stance when she falls into hers. He kicks out for her knee- she blocks with the flat of her opposite foot. He falls back into stance, grinning. "Impressive." He steps forward, and she sidesteps to the left. They repeat and then his fist is flying out at her face. She swivels to the right and catches his forearm before he can yank it back. She whirls around, his arm stretched out behind her. He grimaces as her elbow slams into the inside of his. She yanks his arm down to the mat. He punches at her knee but hits her thigh instead when she whips her leg up, the heel of her foot driving into the space between his shoulder blades. He flops heavily to the mat, her bare foot resting gently at the back of his throat. She grins at him.

"You haven't seen impressive yet, Agent Barton." He turns to face her, the stubble on his neck scraping against her foot.

"Apparently." He coughs out. She lifts her foot and holds a hand out to him. His calloused fingers wrap completely around her forearm. His eyes flash victoriously just before his fingers tighten and he jerks down hard. She falls to her knees and he's on his beside her. She rolls to her back just as his clasped hands smash into her sore shoulder. She gasps but it doesn't stop her hands from whipping out to slap against his ears. He grunts, raising a fist to hit her again. Her hands cup under his arms and she yanks up and over her head, slamming her feet into his belly. He's hauled up, over her body and onto his back. She whips her body around, her knees landing on his shoulders, her butt on his chest. The air huffs out of his lungs as she slams her hands over his wrists. He groans and she laughs.  
"Truce?" she smirks and stands, rolling her shoulder.

"Gah. Yeah. Probably a good idea." He says, rubbing his neck. "You go for the throat a lot." She shrugs.

"It's a weak point. I was trained to exploit every weakness I find." He rises to his knees and then his feet, rubbing his elbow. They walk to the drink counter, each gently prodding at new bruises. They each grab a cup and fill it with water before turning to sit at one of the nearby tables.

"Alright. We'll go order you a suit after lunch and then do some group sparring." They finished their drinks silently before heading to the cafeteria. He taps his earpiece again. "Hey, Coulson."

"Yes, Barton." She could barely hear Coulson's voice in the quiet hall.

"Do me a favor and round up some sparring buddies for me." He glances over at Natasha, "a dozen at least. Agent Romanoff and I are going to try some group sparing. I'll meet them at the gym in a 30."

"Barton?"

"Hmm?" Clint asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Try not to let her kill you." He laughs.

"In her dreams." He says, smiling at her. She doesn't look at him for fear of letting her grin slip out.

When they reach the buffet at the cafeteria, she grabs a little of everything- there are several things here she's never tried before. "So. Red Room?" he asks, taking a bite of his Salisbury steak. She hesitates a moment before answering.

"My parents died in a fire when I was very young- five or six years old. An agent of Red Room found me. They raised me." she took a sip of her water- her mouth had suddenly become very dry. "They educated me. There were normal classes such as mathematics, history, science and literature… but there were other courses also… weapons training, sabotage techniques, electronic security systems, hand to hand classes. We learned to seduce and lie, kill, track and torture. I didn't leave base for several months at a time. I think I was twelve when I killed for the first time." She noticed Hawkeye's subtle wince before his face blanked. "About three years later I went on my first solo mission. They said I was sixteen when I became an agent. A year later I was on the run from them."

"Ms. Romanoff… I'm grateful you trusted me with this information but this information really should be in your file." She shrugs lightly.

"I understand. Your psychologists will have a great deal of fun trying to understand me." They ate in silence for a bit before Clint set his fork down.  
"I had a brother…" Her heart stutters for a second. She's not used to this. Used to men revealing history to her without prompting. "We were in an orphanage before we ran away to join the circus. I had a pretty rough disagreement with him and the man who trained us. We split up. I haven't heard from him in over a decade." And then it occurred to her. _He's trying to comfort me. Telling me that I'm not the only one here who has lost a family._ "He could be dead for all I know…" Without thinking, without planning, her hand reaches out to touch his.

"I'm so sorry, Hawkeye." He gently brushed her knuckles with his thumb, grinning wryly.

"Yeah, well. Didn't want you to feel alone." He says, slapping his hands together. "So." He glanced down at her tray. "You ready to get your suit?"

She nods, standing. She almost does a double take when he leads her to what looks like a small general store. "A lot of our agents don't leave base often. Sometimes you forget to grab an extra toothbrush before leaving home." She nods silently, checking each of the shelves. They contained everything from basic hygienic items to sweets to playing cards and popular books. "Hey, Jeanie." Hawkeye greets the pretty blonde behind the counter. "I'll need a uniform order for a new recruit. Agent Romanoff, meet Jeanie. Jeanie, Agent Romanoff."

"Sure, Agent Barton." She smiles at Natasha brightly, pulling a blue measuring tape from a drawer. "I'll just need to take a few measurements." She hurries around the desk to Natasha's side. She happily shakes her hand before lifting Natasha's arm up daintily, running the tape under it. "Sorry if this tickles, dear." Jeanie looped the tape over Natasha's head and when she drew it loosely over Natasha's breasts, Hawkeye turned away to examine the opposite wall. Jeannie smiled when she noticed this. "The men get so freaked out over this." She proceeded to measure Natasha's waist, hips, inseam, thighs, wrist and fingers, jotting down each number before rolling the tape up. "Well, just specify here if you'd like any of the offered extras and it should arrive in about a week." Natasha checked over the form. Optional extras included gloves (fingerless or not), holsters (for one or two guns), thigh holsters and knife sheaths, a built in bra, reinforced bullet and blade resistant fabrics and assorted pockets (thighs, seat, breast, hips, and ankles). She glanced up at Hawkeye.

"What am I allowed to choose?" his eyebrows arch up.

"Allowed? You can choose whatever you want. You'll have to pay for some of the extras but you'll be able to afford it with your paycheck. That should arrive just before your suit." She nods and turns to the paper. She quickly checks off the things that she likes and hands the paper back to Jeanie. Clint grins at her. "So. I'm looking forward to watching you kick someone else's ass. Mine's still sore. How about you?"

She spends the next two hours wiping the floor with everyone he can throw at her while learning their names. Halfway through Barton had to replace four of them due to a sprained ankle, a pulled hamstring, three broken fingers and a broken nose. She notices when Coulson enters the room but misses what he says to Hawkeye while ducking down to avoid a punch. She kicks out hard, her heel snapping Owens' head back. Kemp punches at her and she wraps her arm around his, jerking back hard. She winces for him when she hears his shoulder pop. His face hits the mat as she hits her knees, rolling to the side just as Langley's clenched fists slam into where her chest was a second ago. She crouches, arms up, blowing the hair out of her eyes. 

Owens and Kemp are still picking themselves up off the floor, Langley and Pitts are closing in and Meyers is starting to circle behind her. Pitts moves first, kicking at the side of her head. She grabs his calf two handed and swings to the side with all her weight. He crashes into Langley and they both crumple when she releases his leg. She grins in satisfaction for a second before a punch lands hard in her side. She grunts, whirling to the left. Meyers grins at her lopsidedly. She rolls her shoulders, grinning at him and flips her hair to the side. When he runs at her fists ready, she pivots on one foot, shoving her elbow into his gut, slamming her other foot into his knee and bends, vaulting him over her head. She curses when he grabs her arm on the way down, yanking her to her knees. She flips to her back, yanking her knees up. They catch Meyers in the chest and he grunts heavily. She wraps her legs around his neck, locking her ankles and flips to the side hard. She's just risen to her feet, arms up ready for more when she hears it. Clapping. She turns to look behind her. It's Coulson. He's got folders tucked under one arm and a cup of coffee in the other. He smiles at her brightly. "You're going to fit in great here." Behind her Kemp is helping Meyers of the mat.

Hawkeye glances at his watch. "Well, kids, it's getting late." He slaps Pitts on the shoulder when he passes him. "I think it's nearing her bedtime." She glares at him but he just laughs and shrugs. She rubs her neck, turning back to the men behind her.

"You should probably get that checked out." she says to Owens. "I didn't kick you as hard as I could have but it's not that hard to give someone a concussion."

He grunts, rubbing his head. "Could've aimed lower." she shrugs nodding in Clint's direction.

"He told me to give it my all." Coulson laughed again.

"Tomorrow you'll meet with one of our psychologists and do some primary tests."

"Tests?" he nods.

"Just a basic quiz on how you'd react in various situations. We've assigned you permanent lodgings. There will be a camera and a guard placed outside your door for the next few days for security reasons." He turns to Clint. "Room 514. You should know the area." He nods to them both. "I'll see you tomorrow."

They stop at the counter for a cup of water. She looks at the clock on the wall- it's 11pm. The gym looks even more crowded than it was during the day. "Does everyone here work at night and sleep during the day?" Clint snickers into his cup.

"It's really all about when you get back from mission for us. Most everyone else is on a rotating schedule. I'm not entirely sure Coulson sleeps at all though. He's always awake and on top of things." He stretches, yawning. "I wake up at 6am normally." she nods. "We'll go for a run before your psych appointment." There's an armed guard in a steel folding chair sitting outside room 514 when they arrive. The room is small and there's an extra chair and drawers and shelves installed below the bed. Her bags are piled on the center of the bed. "There's a bathroom through that door, he says pointing at the back of the room. You'll probably want to let me see your laptop before you change or anything." he smirks.

"And why would I let you near my laptop, agent Barton?"

"Well you'll have to let our tech department do a sweep of it anyway. Oh, yeah. And I managed to install a video camera back in Nysa." she glares at him, sitting on the bed and pulling the laptop out. The usb that connected her mouse looked slightly different. She pulled in out, turning it over examining it.

"I didn't notice. Congratulations. If I had seen you, I'd have shot you before asking questions." she tosses the camera to him. "You went out the window?" he nods.

"I shimmied around to the wall facing the alley and climbed down the rain spout. I thought for sure you'd come after me."

"I figured someone had bugged the room. That's another reason I left so soon." she nods at the little camera. "Nice tech. Is that usual gear?" he smiles.

"Our tech dept is like Candyland. You'll love it." he slaps his hands on his knees, rising to his feet. "Night, Romanoff."

She saluted slightly. "Good night, Barton."


	6. I'm On a Boat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Clint train together and learn some more about one another.

... Clint PoV...  
“Shit, shit, shit-” He ducks just as a spray of rubber bullets fly over their heads. “You said you could disarm it!”  
“They’re made differently here, Barton!” she slams the metal door on the alarm system.  
“Whatever! Get down.” He lets an arrow fly as she ducks around the corner and checks the ammo on her two small guns. She’s only got a few shots left.  
“I’m out of ammo.” She holsters her guns. “Cover me.”  
“That’s a bad idea-” but she’s already darting past him, running as fast as he’s ever seen. Before the nearest agent can even raise his gun to her she has her calves around his neck and twists, yanking him to the floor as she lands on her feet. He drops two of them with his blunted arrows as they stare at her in horror. 

And then they swarm her, five surrounding her as two more stand back, guns raised. She holds her own for several hits but when one of them gets a good hit in on her left shoulder, she starts to falter. He winces as she takes another agent down with a brutal gut punch. _She’s even going easy on them. Hell, it’d probably be easier for her to kill them than just incapacitate them._ He takes down the two on the sidelines and one surrounding her before they wrestle her to the ground, gun to her temple. 

“Drop the bow or she dies!” His heart stutters and he drops his bow without even thinking. He knows that the guns only have rubber bullets and that it’s just a training exercise but apparently no one told that to his nervous system. She blows the hair out of her face and looks up at him.  
“I could’ve taken them.”  
“Shut up!” the agent with the gun to her head backhands her and for a second Clint actually fears for the man’s wellbeing. Next time she sees that agent in the gym he’ll be sore for a month. “Kick the bow over and put your hands on your head.” Clint complies. They waste no time zip tying their hands.

Five minutes later, they’re across a dark cement room from one another zip tied to pipes along the walls. They’d even thought to bind their feet. As soon as they close the door, she starts shimmying around trying to work her way out of them. “They’re good actors, huh?”  
“Mmm.” She murmurs distractedly. “You too. It almost looked like you actually thought they’d shoot me.”  
He shrugs and reaches into his back pocket. “Knee jerk reaction. You’re my partner.” She stills and looks up at him. “You’ve never had a partner?” she shakes her head slowly, rolling her shoulders. He huffs a laugh as the tie around his wrists snaps audibly. She looks up at him and he waves the arrow head lightly. “Didn’t you know? I’m never out of arrows.” He cuts his legs free and sees her smiling when he looks up.

“I suppose having a partner might not be so bad.” And her smile is so gentle and she looks so young that his heart jumps to his throat and _Jesus Christ_ , he thinks, _are those butterflies? This isn’t fucking high school, Clint. Get ahold of yourself._  
“Uh-” he clears his throat, “Um, yeah.” He says, cutting the tie around her wrists. “I’m handy to have around.” She just snickers and takes the arrow tip from him. Without needing to confer, they move to stand on either side of the door and settle in for a wait. He leans back against the wall, closes his eyes and relaxes. He’s a sniper- he’s used to waiting. Judging by the quiet shuffling of her boots, however, she is not. “Have you ever been to the States before now?”

“What?” He repeats the question slowly turning to look at her. She just stares at him, brows drawn close in confusion.  
“I’m making small talk, Romanoff. You seem jittery.”  
“I’m not-” she stops the lie quickly, averting her eyes like an embarrassed teenager. Once again he marvels at how young she looks. Though judging by what they’ve pieced together of her history, she’s actually probably older than him. By a lot. “No. No, I’ve never been here before.”  
“Any place you wanna visit when you’re cleared? Vegas? Times Square? Disney World?”

“The Grand Canyon.” She says quickly. She glances at him. “They allow rock climbing there, right?”  
“Uh. I guess so. You rock climb?”  
“Not as much as I like. Kind of hard to find time for hobbies when you’re constantly on the run.”  
“Sorry.” He says, bashfully rubbing his neck. “Suppose those first two weeks were harder on you than on me.” She huffs out a small laugh.  
“You weren't the only one looking for me.” Her shoulders drop some. “I have no doubt they’re still looking. Our sort of people don’t give up easily.” Without thinking he reaches out to grab her hand. She jerks her head up to look at him when he does and his butterflies are back so quick he forgets to breathe.  
“You’re my partner now, Tasha. I’m- I mean, _we’re_ not gonna let them find you.” She gives him a small smile and he thinks he might have felt her fingers tighten around his but then the door’s opening and they rip apart from one another. 

Her fist meets the nose of the first man visible and he slams the door on the other. She’s already got her legs wrapped her prey when he locks the other one in a choke hold. Within seconds they’re both lying unconscious on the floor. He holds the door open for her as she walks over their prone bodies. She freezes halfway down the hallway. “Your bow-” he gently pushes her forward.  
“Forget it. I’ve got others.”They make it out of the warehouse without being spotted only to nearly stumble headlong into the harbor. There are several small speedboats docked nearby. Clint climbs a nearby drain pipe to see over the building. “Well fuck.” He looks down to her. “Front of the building’s surrounded. Only way out is over the water.” 

By the time he shimmies down the pipe again, she’s already sitting on the floor between the wheel and the seat of the nearest boat. He leans over to watch as she cuts wires with his arrowhead and twists them together. Suddenly the boat’s engine revs and she pull herself up into the pilot’s seat.  
“Where the hell did you learn to carjack a boat?”  
She flips her hair and smiles at him. “Pretty sure it’s not called carjacking when it’s a boat. And I learned in Germany. They blew up my car so I stole a boat.” It occurs to him as he climbs in the seat beside her that he really _shouldn't_ find her casual confessions of theft so attractive. 

“Someday you’re gonna teach me to do it, okay?”  
“Teach me to shoot an arrow and you’ve got a deal.” And with that she shoves his head down as gunfire opens up behind them. Rubber bullets bounce off the back of the boat as they roar away. He looks up at her, concerned when he sees her leg shaking only to see her wearing the biggest smile he's ever seen and laughing her ass off. “What’s so funny?” He yells over the wind and engine.  
“This was so easy! Last time I tried this I almost kissed the hot end of a bazooka.” He stares at her blankly for a moment.  
“You’re kidding.”She shrugs. 

An hour later, they dock at the other side of town. After a few more hours of ducking various followers they knew from SHIELD, they knocked on the front door of a red brick townhome. One of Coulson’s men let them in and led them to the guest bedroom turned Coulson’s office. He stands as soon as he sees them. “How’d it go?”  
Clint points to her and they answer simultaneously. “She can hotwire a boat!”  
“We obtained the information before being captured. The weapons have been sent to an undercover agent of AIM.” He smiles and points to the radio on his desk.  
“I heard you gave them a run for their money.” Natasha’s cheeks go a little pink. “However I also heard you lost your bow, Barton.” She flushes a deeper red and Clint shrugs. “Those things aren’t cheap you know.”

“Hey job was completed and no one died. I call that a win.” Clint says, rubbing the back of his neck and yawning as he heads toward the guest bathroom for a shower.  
Behind him, he hears Coulson say her name quietly as she leaves the room. "You did good, Agent Romanoff. You make a good team. I look forward to putting you both on active duty." And Clint might be imagining it but her voice seems a little thicker than normal when she thanks him.


	7. Bad Habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint poses as a catholic priest and Natasha keeps getting distracted by how good he looks in a clerical collar. Towards the end she has a brief PTSD related psychotic episode in which she has trouble telling memories from reality.

… Natasha PoV…

Her first actual mission is a stealth snatch from the home of a billionaire engineer who the file suggests is the dumbest literal genius on the planet. She cracks his safe in three minutes and copies his hard drive in five. She'd almost be proud of the cleanliness of the job if his security system wasn't such a joke. Clint laughs when she suggests leaving a note saying as much in his safe. Fury does not. 

The next file they give her contains blue prints for an extensive militaristic underground compound. They want her to bug the place but tell her to steal as much info as she can hack into in five minutes to lead them away from the listening devices. They run into a few guards but only incapacitate them and walk away with barely a scratch and a bus load of information. 

They’ve been on nearly two months of missions when Fury asks her to play the honey pot. Clint's jaw drops open and he's half out of his chair, fists rattling the table when her small hand touches his wrist lightly.  
"It’s not fun, Barton, but it's what I've trained for."  
"But you don't have to-"  
"I was under the impression I don't have to do any of this. I choose to do it for the same reason you did." She turns to Fury. "Will I be saving lives by doing this?"  
"Yes" he says curtly.  
She shrugs. "Then I'll do it." 

The mark’s name is Robert Heeter and he’s a 67 year old senator from Florida that likes to pick up girls on his trips to the Dominican Republic. Their information says he’s been selling information to potential terrorists. She dies her hair blonde, slips into a sparkly silver dress and heels and he’s hers before she finishes her champagne. 

She greets him in perfect Dominican Spanish and he begins flirting immediately. By the time she lets him lead her to his hotel room he’s already had several drinks but she manages to talk him into getting a bottle of vodka out of the mini bar anyway. By the time he’s good and drunk he’s already started blathering on in English about how sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do and sometimes being in government meant you had to deal with people you didn’t want to. She nods, seemingly confused and he continues on and on, confident she can’t understand him. From his drunken rambling she gathers that he’d been approached by dangerous men that gave him a choice to either sell them information or spend the rest of his life expecting a bullet in the back. 

She won’t admit it but she’s very relieved when his age finally catches up to him and he falls asleep in the middle of a story about the time his “foreign friends” introduced him to who he referred to as the scariest woman he’d ever met. “HA. Even scarier than my ex-wife!” he stares at her a little, his watery eyes darting across her face. “She looked a little like you actually, sweetheart. But you’re not half as scary as she was.” _If only you knew, Mr. Heeter_ , she thinks, smiling at him blankly. 

She wipes down everything she touched before leaving and even called 112 and told them where he was and how much he’d had to drink before tossing the phone on her way out. She wonders if, when the paper work goes through in a few weeks and he finds himself in cuffs, he’ll remember the pretty blonde and realize what she’d done. Maybe next time he’ll think twice about spilling his guts to foreign women, she thinks, opening the door to the café she agreed to meet Hawkeye in. 

It’s two weeks after that when Fury tosses two files labeled 083-B91 at them.  
“You want us to what?” Clint asks deadpan.  
“You heard me, Barton.” Fury says, folding his hands over the paperwork.  
“You want an ex carnie turned assassin and little miss superspy to dress up as a priest and a nun so that we can find and steal an alien device the church is hiding?”

“I think that sums it up.” Natasha says, barely hiding her smile. “Though I’m pretty sure he called it an 084.”  
“Please.” Clint huffs, settling back in his chair to flip though his paperwork. “In this business that means two things: wanna-be super soldier juice or glowey alien tech.” 

“As far as our scientists can determine, we are alone in the universe, Agent Barton.”  
“Yeah, and SHIELD _totally_ does not spy on American citizens. We’re not idiots, Fury.”  
“And we don’t know what it is yet.” Fury continues. “Or if it glows.” He adds with a small smirk. “Either way, the stories we’ve heard about it say we really don’t want the bad guys getting their hands on it so you need to find and secure it.”  
“And what if the local priest doesn’t want to give us the shiny space toy? Then what?”  
“The priest shouldn’t be a problem. He’s a police chaplain. We’ll arrange for him to be very busy during your stay. You’ll have plenty of time in which you only have to deal with the nuns and parishioners.”  
“Yeah.” Clint huffs. “It’ll be a piece of cake.”

A day later, she's sitting on his bed, his thin pillow propped against the wall, her ankles crossed, reading the Daily Bugle. He complains loudly from the small bathroom about his shoes being tight and too shiny. "Shut up and suit up, Hawkeye." She calls without looking up from the article she’s reading. Next to the article is a grainy black and white photo of a man wearing a long black coat and a t-shirt bearing a white skull, holding a semi-automatic rifle. 

_New York, NY.- Police are investigating the death of a drug dealer who was shot last night nearby a local playground._

_According to Sheriff Bill Conway, of Harlem PD, police were called to the corner of Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd and W 128th Street at around 9:30 pm on June 14th. Upon arrival police located the body of infamous Peter “Hogman” Grunter, a drug dealer the NYPD have been pursuing for months. Several witnesses claim to have seen a man resembling the ruthless vigilante known only as the Punisher.  
Strangely, witnesses claim that while the Punisher was not alone, the red clad vigilante he was seen with was not a friend, as several neighbors report seeing who they’re calling Daredevil shooting the Punisher. Witnesses report that the Punisher, seemingly unfazed, then shot Grunter and fled while bleeding heavily._

_Harlem detectives have issued yet another arrest warrant for the Punisher and remind the public to call in with any and all information as to his current location. “People see the skull on his shirt and see him gunnin’ down drug dealers and mobsters and think he’s one [of] them superheroes. He ‘aint.” states Detective Gerry Everett, who has been on the Punisher’s trail for nearly four months now. “He’s a stone cold killer and nearly put a bullet in my partner’s back last week. You see him, you hide, and you call us right away.”_

“There’s an article here about someone called the Punisher.” She says, loudly enough to carry through the closed door. “Sounds like the sort of person Fury would want to keep tabs on.”  
“Fury’s been trying to track him down since the guy’s second kill. Dude’s made a big impression on the mob apparently. He’s got himself a lot of enemies.”  
“Is SHIELD one of his enemies?”  
“As far as I know, none of ours have been sent to track him down yet. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t call it in and try to detain him if we ever run into him.” He says, opening the door. 

“Any idea who he is?” she asks looking up from her paper. He’s wearing a dark suit and shirt similar to one he’s worn on their other missions but at his throat rests a square of white. The sight of it on him makes the words in her mouth dry up. “ _Oh._ ” She says quietly. She hasn’t been to confession in decades but the sight of that white collar around the throat she’d been straddling on a sparing mat just a few hours ago makes her think maybe she should. He’s rolled the sleeves up and she wonders if his hands will look just as good holding a Bible as they do holding a bow.  
“Oh? Oh what?” he looks down and turns around, trying to look at his ass in the mirror hanging from the door. “I didn’t stain the thing already did I?”  
If she were anyone else, she’d be blushing by now. Instead she shakes her paper out and hides behind it. “No, no stains.” 

“Then why the Oh?”  
“I expected you to be in a cassock.” She recovers smoothly.  
“A what?”  
“A cassock. It’s sort of like a long robe. The priest at the church near where I grew up wore one.”  
“Wait, there was a _church_ near Red Room?”  
She laughs bitterly. “Of course not. There church was not far from where my parents lived. I was very young when I was last there. ”

He smirks at her over his shoulder and it hits her gut in a way she hasn’t felt in years. “Damn. Sayin’ breathy little things like that could make a man think you appreciate the sight of his ass.” He throws his hands up. “But then you gotta go and ruin it by tellin’ me you’d rather see me in a dress.” His smirk grows to a toothy grin as he runs his hands over his hips and cocks his head. “Which do you think I’d look better in: slinky or ruffley?”

She smiles, folding up the newspaper and steadfastly ignoring the heat slipping down her spine. “Slinky. Allows better movement.” She says. _Draws attention to your ass_ , she thinks.  
He goes onto his tip-toes, staring at his profile. “You don’t think it would make my ass look big?”  
_Fuck it_ , she thinks. “Only in the good ways, Barton.”  
He snaps his head to her eyebrow raised. “I can’t tell if you’re screwin’ with me or not right now.”  
She drapes the habit over her arm and taps his ass with the paper as she passes him. “Stop over analyzing, Hawkeye. You’re not a mark and I wouldn’t treat you like one.” 

She dons the habit and name like a second skin. Sister Mary’s simple black shoes are sensible and cheap and the silver cross at her neck hangs heavy against her collarbone. When she steps out, she’s already half in mission mode. “Ready to get this show on the road, Father Perkins?” He tilts his head side to side, watching her. “What?” she asks, adjusting her veil.  
“It’s creepy how you can do that.” He says shrugging. “You just put on a slinky dress or a pants suit or” he gestures towards her, “a nun-dress and become someone totally new. I’m torn between being really impressed and a little scared.”  
“Thank you. And it’s called a habit, not a nun-dress.”

They are Father Anthony Perkins and Sister Mary Grayson, from Saint Augustine’s Church in Iowa (that doesn’t actually exist) and are visiting the Basilica of Saint Joseph in Texas while attending the local seminar on youth outreach. The SHIELD issued car they pick up in Arizona is a low key silver minivan. As they pass Maria on the way out she barely stifles a laugh. When Clint flips her the bird she stops trying and laughs out loud. Even Fury is wearing a small smirk as he hands them their earpieces. 

They’re only ten minutes into the two hour long trip when Clint clears his throat loudly and loosens the collar at his neck. “So this is kindda new for me.” He says with his thick arm draped over the wheel in feigned casualness. He gestures to the collar, “You know, the whole pretending to be someone I’m not.”  
“It’s not hard. Just act like you know what you’re doing and no one will question you.”  
“I’m pretending to be a _priest_ , Nat. What if they want me to pray with them or give a sermon?”

She shrugs. “If they ask, do it. If you really can’t pull the sermon off give an excuse like you don’t like doing one on short notice or don’t feel comfortable preaching away from your home church.”  
“But-”  
“You can’t over think it, Barton, or it won’t work. It has to be natural.”  
“I just hope the next mission is simpler. Go in, beat up bad guys, get out.”  
She laughs. “Yeah, that would be nice.” 

She spends the rest of the ride reading him articles from the Daily Bugle and after about an hour they switch so he can stretch his legs. As they pull up, they’re greeted enthusiastically by the church secretary, an elderly nun, and Father Michael Walker. After meeting everyone, they head to the nearest motel, about a five minute drive away and choose rooms facing away from the road. 

They arrive on Monday afternoon and spend the next several days doing searching the church property in between services and seminars. It’s on day four, during the third hymn that he elbows her lightly. “Is there _anything_ you’re not good at?”  
She looks up to him, confused but continues singing along perfectly. He gestures to the hymnal in front of them and gives her a look she’s pretty sure catholic priests should not give nuns. “Wouldn’t have thought you’d be as good at this as you are at-” She elbows him and ignores him as he rubs his side, muttering. 

After the service, while searching the priest’s office while he’s away, she answers him. “I’m bad at sewing.”  
He jerks his head to face her, hitting it on the ceiling and wobbling the chair he’s standing on. “Come again?”  
“You asked if there was anything I was not good at.” She says, continuing her search under the desk without looking at him. “I am not good at sewing.”  
“Huh. That’s weird.”  
“Why?”  
“Well- uh, I’m not trying to- damn.” He takes a breath and starts over. “I’m not bein’ sexist or anything, I just grew up in a place where you either patched your own holes or wore your pants holey.”

She’s quiet for several moments before she speaks again. “I recall my mother teaching me to sew a button as a child and I once poorly repaired a torn seam on my doll. But once I got to Red Room I had more important things to learn. When I tore something they would take it and replace it with another one exactly the same and completely undamaged.” She huffs a small laugh, followed by a cough, from the dust she stirred up. “Never realized how useful it could be until I was on my own. Maybe you could teach-“ she stops talking suddenly and sits up fast.  
“What?” when he glances over, he sees a small black square in her hand. “Na-” he stops himself as he recognizes it as a wireless listening device. “Mary. What’s up?” she looks at him and it takes a second for her to hide the tension in her eyes. _Someone else knows it’s here. Someone else knows we are here._ “I found that book Father Walker mentioned. It had fallen under his desk.” She takes a moment to examine it before she replaces it silently and they walk out of the office together. 

They don’t say anything but a tight lipped goodbye to the janitor on their way out until they’re in the car and several streets away. Clint is checking the rear view mirrors a bit more than is necessary and Natasha has her hand on the knife strapped to her thigh under the habit. “Someone knows we’re here, Hawkeye.”  
“Maybe not. They might be here for the 084 too and haven’t realized who we are yet.”  
“We have to assume they know everything.” She looks at him. “We have to call Coulson and then go get the 084.”  
He glances at the dashboard clock which reads 2:30. “Father Walker will be back soon. He’ll realize we’re up to something.”  
She shrugs. “Then we’ll have to tell him. Pull over here. That bug looked like AIM tech. We don’t have time to go back to the motel. You still have the cases in here?”  
“Of course.” He says, pulling into a nearby alley. She leans over between the seats and pulls two heavy cases from the back seat compartment. 

He flips his open to reveal his bow, quiver, a small knife and gun. He slips his jacket off and a shoulder holster on while she straps more knives to her leg. After several seconds of them wriggling around in their seats, they are armed with almost every weapon they have with them. Natasha loads a clip into her pistol before tucking it into the holster under her habit. When he looks at her with raised eyebrows and a smile, she shakes her sleeves down over her Widow’s Bites and glares at him. “What?”

“There’s something to be said for knowing a woman’s carrying half an armory under her skirt.” He says, grinning.  
“Shut up and drive, Hawkeye.” She says, ignoring the flush of heat on her neck. Spotting the holster under his suit jacket when he puts his arm behind her seat to pull away only makes it worse. _Something to be said for knowing a man’s carrying a deadly weapon under his suit jacket too, apparently_ , she thinks before turning away from him. 

_Don’t be an idiot, Romanoff. That can’t end well. He’s a distraction_ , she thinks as she calls Coulson on the earpiece and updates him. Two minutes later, they pull onto the church’s lot to see Father Walker’s car in its usual spot. When they walk in, both carrying their heavy weapons cases, she turns to the janitor. “You should go home early today, Andy.”  
“What? Why?” he asks, continuing to mop the hallway floor.  
“You really, _really_ want to go home, Andy.” She says slowly.  
“With respect, Sister Mary, all I really, really want is your dirty shoes off my clean floor.”  
“Andy.” Hawkeye says in a rough, angry tone she’s never heard before, “You wanna leave.” He pulls his jacket to the side, revealing his holster. “Now.” Andy leans his mop against the wall and backs away, eyes wide and hands raised in surrender. When he gets to the door he turns and runs. 

“Was that really necessary?” she asks as they head to the priest’s office again.  
“You said our cover was blown.”  
“I said we needed to find it now. Our cover could have remained intact.”  
He shrugs as he checks the corners, his hand on his holster. “My way’s quicker.”  
“Your way is about as subtle as a tank. Let me do the talking.”  
“Yes, dear.” Before she has a chance to knock, Father Walker opens the door. 

“Sister Mary, Father Perkins, how nice to see you again, I thought you were gone for the day.”  
“Father Walker,” she says quietly, “we’re not really here for the youth ministry seminar.” He frowns lightly. “Our church records show that you are in possession of a unique religious artifact.” He glances between the two of them. “We’ve come to believe it’s not safe here anymore. We’d like to take it somewhere safer.” His eyes narrow and his frown deepens.  
“I’ve never told a soul about it.” He searches their faces again. “Who are you really, Sister Mary?” They exchange a look before she shrugs and pulls her badge out, holding it open. Clint quickly follows suit.  
“My name is Natasha Romanoff. I’m an undercover agent of SHIELD, Strategic Homeland-”

“I know what SHIELD stands for, Ms. Romanoff.” He reads Clint’s badge quickly. “Mr. Barton, I’m assuming your hesitance at reading the scripture yesterday was not because you’re away from your home church?”  
Clint shrugs. “Sorry, Padre.”  
Father Walker scrunches up his nose. “Imitating a man of God, what has this country come to?”  
“I’m sorry for the lies, Father, but we need the artifact.”  
He’s silent for a moment before straightening up and clasping his hands behind his back. “No.”  
“I’d listen to the lady. She can be very persuasive.”  
Natasha levels a glare at him. “We don’t have time for this, sir. The premises have been bugged. We are being listened to _right now_.” The priest pales a bit. “Some very bad people want to get their hands on this as much as we do.”

“I swore to keep it hidden even in the face of death.”  
“That’s a real possibility of how today will end if you don’t tell us where it is, buddy.” Clint says, pushing past him and checking the windows.  
She pushes him into the nearest chair and stares him down. After several silent seconds, she turns to look at the room again. She lifts a painting of Saint Joseph off the wall to look behind it and the priest laughs loudly.  
“You really think I’d hide it behind a painting of the patron saint of my church? What kind of idiot do you think I am?” she glares at him over her shoulder.  
“Father, you need to tell me-”

Clint slams his weapons case on the desk, looking up at her. “We’ve got company.” He says, snapping his bow open and kicking a bookshelf over in front of the door.  
“Tell us where it is and we can get you out of here before it gets dangerous.” She says quickly. The priest shakes his head sternly. Half a heartbeat later, they hear the front doors crash open and she shoves him under the desk, reaching for the gun strapped to her thigh. The priest inhales sharply and looks away so quick he bangs his head on the desk. She almost laughs but then Hawkeye has let his first arrow fly through the tiny window on the door and she sees a man with an arrow in his eye fall backwards. 

Ice washes down her spine when they kick the door open a few inches and she spots the automatic rifles in their hands. _Well, shit_ , she thinks, diving behind the desk with Hawkeye as they open fire. _They’re not taking any chances are they?_  
“Could’ve avoided this, Padre,” Clint shouts, slinging his quiver onto his back, “if only you’d told the lady what she wanted.”  
“It’s there.” he says, his shaking hand pointing to the heating vent beside Clint. He and Natasha share a look before he snaps up and releases three arrows at once. As he ducks back down a bullet grazes the side of his throat. 

“Can it help get us out of this mess?” she asks as bullets and splinters of the desk rain over their heads.  
“What?” The man asks, dazed.  
She grabs his arm tightly, her nails digging into his arm through his shirt sleeve. “The artifact. What does it do?”  
“The letters say it makes you stronger- faster.”  
“Works for me” she says, prying the vent open with a fallen letter opener. Behind the desk, they can hear the sound of several men trying to shove the door open. Inside sits a lockbox. She snatches the key from the pastor’s outstretched hand as Barton takes two more down. The box is covered in a thick layer of dust but the lock opens cleanly. Inside rests a coiled, finely crafted, well-worn leather belt with a silver and garnet clasp.  
Beside her, Father Perkins sucks in a breath and grabs her arm. “It’s dangerous. It makes you-”  
She pauses before bucking the heavy belt. “Will it kill me? Will it stop me from saving us?” He bites his lip and shakes his head no. 

The moment she fastens it around her waist feels like a shot of espresso to the brain and burning alcohol in her belly. She shakes the head rush away, slams her hands to the desktop and vaults over it and through the half open door, her shiny black shoes connecting with the nearest man’s face with a sickening crunch.  
“The _fuck_?” one of them shouts before she’s got an arm around his neck, flipping him over. When she releases him, he flies several feet further than she expects. In the room behind her, the priest takes a shuddering breath and looks from her to the man beside him, in a white collar splattered with blood.  
“It makes you wild.” He says quietly. 

It reminds her of her first real fight outside Red Room. Back then, she had barely any meat on her bones, cold winters, sparse meals, and constant training keeping her thin. She was sent to kill an old man while he slept. She remembers kneeling over him, his blood staining her coat, her hands, and the knife they’d given her as if she had watched it from across the room. His death cry echoed on repeat in her head for hours. She was young then. Young and inexperienced. 

By now she was very good at killing in complete silence. Sometimes when she’s in the middle of a quiet fight she can hear Swan Lake in the back of her brain. When she’d first heard it the music touched something in her that had nearly been trained right out of her. She’d sat on Ivan’s knee and begged him to allow her to attend the opera someday. He’d rubbed her back and said Perhaps, Tsarina, my little princess, after your training. He’d neglected to tell her that the training never ended. He hadn’t told her that there were always going to be more powerful enemies and more ways for missions to fail.

She wonders what she would say to Ivan now. Would be hate her for deserting him? Would he forgive her? She recalled the look on his face the first time her memories broke. “Natalia, my sweet Tsarina,” he’d said, his face crumpling as he pulled her close, “you are safe here. You are safe with me.” Except she wasn’t. He had said he loved her but had allowed them to strap her to a chair and erase the parts of her they didn’t like. She would never be safe from what they had done to her, from what he had allowed them to do to her. “Natalia! Natasha! _‘Tasha!_ ” he’d shouted after her. The name echoed around her, pounding in her ears and limbs, deafening her. 

“Tasha!” She fell to her knees.  
“Tasha, you’re safe!” She covered her head.  
“Tasha, it’s okay, it’s over!” His hand touches her shoulder and she reacts in the way she’d been trained. 

“Liar!” she shouts in Russian, blade to his throat. “I was never safe. It will never be over. You trained me to be a wolf and flinch away when I bite.”  
“Who’s flinching?” She blinks and Ivan’s face fades away. His thick dark mustache and hair fades into sandy blond hair and stubble. She has a knife to the throat of the man who had saved her. “The priest says it’s the belt. “ Clint continues in broken Russian. “Makes you see things. Makes you angry. Violent.” She takes a shuddering breath and lifts the blade away. Her heart jumps to her throat when she sees blood on his skin, on her knife.  
“I’m sorry.” she says, dropping the blade, gently tilting his head to examine the damage she’d done. “I am so sorry, Clint.” She says in English, her voice cracking. It’s been years since this had happened, since she her mind splintered, since she’d been unable to tell reality from a memory. “I didn’t mean- I never-”

“You didn’t hurt me, Tasha.” He says quiet and unmoving. “Its’ from earlier. It’s alright. Just-” he takes a breath and his next words come out in the voice he uses on missions, when he’s speaking to civilians and less experienced agents. It’s the voice he uses when he wants to be heard and obeyed. “Take off the belt, Tasha.” And for the first time since she left Red Room, since she joined SHIELD, she doesn’t question an order. She doesn’t wonder what will happen next. She doesn’t worry that he’ll turn on her.  
She nods and says okay. When she stands, she sees her handiwork. Scattered around them are a dozen unconscious bodies and even more guns. As Clint gets to his feet, a man with a boot print on his face groans. The priest kneels beside him and shushes him. “I don’t think you want them to notice you right now, son.” He says, placing a hand on the man’s arm. 

When she undoes the clasp on the belt her legs buckle and Clint falls to one knee to catch her. She blinks rapidly as the room spins. “Haven’t had a hangover like that in years.” She groans. He laughs and shoves the belt into his pocket.  
“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” He says, his voice deep and gruff, like he’d been yelling. “We get back home and we can get nice and drunk.” She blinks up at him, steadying herself against the wall. _Home?_ Her heart flutters nervously for a second before the weight of what happened hits her.  
“Is that a good idea? I just attacked you, Clint.”  
“Nobody ever mistook me as the smart half of this team, partner.” He says in a terrible John Wayne accent.

“Mr. Barton?” the priest calls from down the hall. Several feet from the nearest man lay their weapons, neatly place in rows. “I imagine you might want to restrain these men but I don’t exactly have hand cuffs in the janitor’s closet.” Clint barks a laugh and reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket revealing a handful of zip ties.  
“Right, Padre.” 

Within an hour they had updated Coulson and the cleanup crew arrived, carted off the bad guys, and issued the priest a formal apology, a confidentiality agreement, and a generous donation. When they get back to the motel she mumbles something about needing a shower before closing the door in his face. She sits down in the shower, resting her head on her knees while the hot water rains down on her. She watches numbly as the pink water swirls down the drain. 

_I’m still compromised. I’m working for the good guys now and I’m still- still what?_ She thinks. _Still broken? Still dangerous? Still a liability? Still a killer?_ She shakes her head and starts scrubbing Clint’s blood from under her nails. _As if that will ever change. I am a weapon, a dangerous, damaged, human weapon. SHEILD knows this. Clint knows this. He doesn’t care. He knows it and still- what? He still trusts me. He still tolerates me._ She huffs a small laugh, remembering his John Wayne impression and the way her heart had stuttered when he’d mentioned home. The fingers scrubbing her hair freeze, suds running over her closed eyes. _He cares about me_ , she realizes. _And it’s going to get him killed._

He knocks before pushing the unlocked door open. “Hey, Coulson said that we can take our time bringing the belt back to home base as long as we’re not followed and-” he stops, spotting her. She’s sitting at the foot of the bed, in shorts and a black tank, her head in her hands. “Hey,” he says, going to his knees beside her. “We’ll get through this. We can get you help.” 

She shakes her head, hands still hiding her face. “Don’t you get it, Barton? There _are_ no psychologists trained to deal with something like me.” _I’m broken_ , she thinks. “I’m… not healthy.” She says. _I’m going to get you killed._ “I’m unsafe… dangerous.” _I’m going to get you killed and I’ll never forgive myself._  
He bends over to look up at her face. “Okay, one) you’re someone not something. And 2) Christ you have a big ego.” She looks up at him suppressed. “You can’t be the only person who’s ever had issues like this? I mean our agents deal with weird ass 084s all the time.” He shrugs and clasps one of her hands in his. “And if you are, so what? SHIELD will find a way to help you.”  
“Why?” she asks quietly.

“Because you’re one of us now. And we protect our own. It’s sort of our thing. We’re not called SHIELD for nothing, you know. We can help you. We can keep you safe.”  
She laughs. “You think this is about my _safety_?”  
“It’s not?”  
“It’s about yours, you idiot.” She says taking a shuddering breath as her throat tightens. “What if- what if you hadn’t talked me down before I’d slit your throat?”  
“The clean up team would have arrived soon enough.” The calmness sin his voice chills her and he continues talking as if he hadn’t just admitted that she could’ve killed him without any effort at all. “They would’ve tried to take the belt from you. They would have hurt you if they couldn’t. Maybe killed you.” He snickers. “Coulson would’ve said something nice at the funeral. Fury would call me a goddamn idiot.”

She grips his hand hard. “It wasn’t just the belt, Clint.”  
His eyes widen slightly. “You- you’re sure? I mean those things can get really-”  
“It’s happened before. I told you that they… did things to my memory. That was a trigger back there, Clint. What if it happens again? I could get you killed.”  
Clint clenches his jaw, rubbing his thumb over her bruised knuckles. “Okay then… we’ll go to the base in New Mexico. We’ll get you help. I’ll make Fury fly in the best damn shrinks he has.” She nods silently, breathing deeply. “I know you’re not used to it yet, Natasha. But you’re not alone anymore. It’s okay to ask for help.”

She sleeps for most of the several hour long drive. He calls Coulson and explains exactly what happened once, then again while being recorded, and then once more to the nearest psych division specialist Coulson could find. When they arrive, Agent Sitwell meets them at the front gate. Beside him stand an alarming amount of agents and doctors. Natasha barely reacts to their presence but notices Clint’s jaw clench in reaction. As they walk in, she gently brushes his hand and gives him a small smile. _“Thank you.”_ She mouths silently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes the Punisher will probably show up eventually though I'm not sure if Daredevil will too or not. And yes, argh, I know this now contradicts with Netflix's Daredevil. Should I change it? If so, any suggestions?


	8. Cliffhanger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After spending a week with SHIELD's best psychologists, Natasha and Clint take some much needed vacation time and learn more about one another's past. Also, Clint hates climbing and complains loudly and often.

…Clint PoV…

He’s laying upside-down on the leather couch, his hair brushing the carpet when the door opens. He ignores it as usual, expecting it to be some nobody agent just walking through as it’s been all week. He listlessly flits through local television channels before coming across a blonde woman in a sweater making dump cake and drops the remote next to his head. 

“What _is_ that?”  
At her voice, he scrambles to sit up, hitting his head on the coffee table with a loud _thunk_ , spilling his coffee. “Nat- you’re uh- I mean. It’s, um, dump cake. I think.”  
She sits down next to him, primly. “And what the hell is dump cake?”  
“Basically cake where you, well, dump in the normal cake stuff like flour and eggs and what not and then throw in marshmallows or nuts or cookie crumbs, mix it a few times, and bake.”

She sits beside him, watching, her hands clasped in her lap. He’s debating taking her hand or asking how it went when she speaks up again. “All the marshmallows are to the left of the pan. Not everyone will get the same amount when she cuts it.”  
He huffs a laugh. “That’s just how it is with dump cake. Every bite is like an adventure.” She laughs at him before putting her arm over the back of the couch, turning towards him, and relaxing just a touch. “How was it?” 

“The research says the 084 brings you memories that cause the greatest spikes in adrenaline,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear and focusing on a spot on the wall behind him. “and uses it to make the wearer stronger and faster.”  
“It makes you afraid? That’s a terrible idea! What kind of idiot aliens make a thing like that?”  
She sighs. “It’s not like that for everyone. Journal entries we found talk about how it made them remember saving their younger sibling from a wild animal and another priest says he remembered the time he jumped off a cliff into the ocean because a friend dared him.” She shrugs. “Guess my memories just aren’t as wholesome as a couple of monks.”

“You haven’t had any…” he waves his hand vaguely. “any more-”  
“Psychotic episodes?”  
“Don’t call it tha-”  
“It’s what it is, Barton.” She says sitting back and letting her head fall back. “And no, I haven’t.” she rubs the couch light “I know this room is real.” She dug her nails into the palm over her hand, before examining the crescent marks there. “I know I’m real.” She turned to look at him, raising her hand to his stubble covered cheek. “I know you’re real.”  
He swallows thickly. _Oh god, this ain’t good_ , he thinks. _I’m in too deep with this girl. I care too much._ “They’ve done most everything they can. They want me to keep in touch. Do psych evals every week. Keep a journal of what I’m thinking.”

Clint leans back against the arm of the couch, throwing his arm over the back, his fingers nearly brushing hers. “The diary of an ex-KGB assassin, spy? Sounds like a thrilling read. When are you publishing? I’d love to read it.”  
She huffs a laugh but the humor doesn’t show on her pinched face. “You really wouldn’t.” the silence between them is long but she doesn’t seem affected by it.  
“I spoke to Fury and emailed them our reports. Took the liberty of doing yours also. Hope you don’t mind.” She smiles at him. “And Coulson gave us two weeks off to recup. Anything you wanna do? Ice cream and a movie? Bar hopping? Spa day?”

“I want to climb.”  
He blinks at her for a second before remembering their conversation during the training mission. “I’m sure you could find someplace around here to do that. There’s a sporting goods store a mile past this exit.”  
“Fantastic.” She says, quickly getting to her feet and crosses the room. He tries to ignore the ache in his chest. _She doesn’t need you, Clint. That’s good. That’s really good._ He rubs the back of his neck hard and stares at his shoes. _I want her to need me. Christ, I’m a horrible human being. I-_ “You coming, Barton?”  
“What?”

“Come rock climbing with me.”  
“Okay.” She glances up at him, the corner of her mouth tipped upwards.  
“I thought I’d have to talk you into it. Or bribe you.”  
He shrugs. “I’d follow you anywhere.” Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly and she bites her lower lip. _Oh fuck me. Really, Barton? That’s literally the most ridiculously cheesy thing you could have said._ “So um. How would you bribe me? It’s not like you’ve seen my Christmas list yet.”  
“I know you hate cheap coffee and would probably pay quite a bit of money for an espresso machine if you knew how to work one.” She says, leading the way back to her room. “I know that you love dogs, particularly big ones.” He stares at the back of her head, a little dumbstruck. “And I know that your hands cramp up after a tough mission and you keep a stress ball in your coat pocket to relax them.”

“I- wha? _How? _”__  
She looks at him over her shoulder, smiling and flipping her hair in a way that makes his throat dry out a little. “I’m a master spy, Mr. Barton. It’s my job to know people. Especially my friends.” The word comes out of her mouth a little heavy and he wonders how often she’s used it when she was herself and not masquerading as a wealthy business woman or prim secretary or mysterious bar fly.  
“I prefer frozen coffees but think they’re grossly overpriced. You?”  
“I like caramel cappuccinos.” 

___Three hours later, they’re both in shorts, t-shirts, and sneakers and working their way up a sheer granite cliff face. “Come on.” She says, nimbly finding footholds where he sees nothing but flat rock. “I want to see the sunset from the top.”_  
“You realize,” he grunts, more out of breath than he’s been in ages. “that we don’t need to climb to get to the top of this thing, right? We can afford-” his heart skips a beat when the bit of rock he’d just put his weight on crumbled in his fingers. The harness tightens around him pinching skin and his heart is in his throat but he only falls in inch or two.  
She looks down at him, holding out a hand. “You good?” 

___He nods yes and she continues up. A little breathlessly, he continues “We can afford a helicopter on our salaries. Or hell, if you’re cheap we could’ve borrowed one from base.” Her laugh echoes around them. “Humans built helicopters so we wouldn’t have to do this sort of shit anymore.”_  
“I’m pretty sure there was more to the invention of the helicopter than ‘I don’t like climbing’, Barton.” She looks down at him and her smile is almost as blinding as the sun. “And who are you to talk? You fight bad guys with a weapon invented in the Paleolithic Era.”  
“Paleo-what now? How do you even- nevermind.” He sees her back shake with laughter and tries not to notice how nice it makes her ass move. It doesn’t work. “You’re like a freaking dictionary.” Above him she finally reaches the top and kneels over to watch him, her practiced eye scanning the thin web of protective ropes and clamps she’d placed. “How do you know that sort of random shit?”  
“I read a lot. It was the only real escape I had. I used to have this massive book on ancient history with pictures on every page. I nearly cried when Ivan threw it out to make room for new ones.”  
He slowly pulls himself up to the top of the mesa, sitting down beside her. 

___“Natasha.” He says quietly. “Who is Ivan?”_  
“I am Natasha Romanoff. I’m the Black Widow. Ivan Petrovich is practically no one. He was the man who brought me to Red Room as a child.” Clint’s jaw clenches and she shakes her head, bracing her arms and leaning back. “It wasn’t like that, Clint. He might’ve doomed me to a life of… whatever I am now, but Ivan saved me. There were other girls in Red Room but none of them had anyone like I had Ivan.”  
“He was a father figure?”  
She laughs bitterly. “He tried to be. But he had… issues. When I was a child he was kind. He would bring me gifts and praise me constantly. But as I got older-” she sighs and when she looks over at him, he suddenly can see why there are rumors flying around SHIELD that she’s way older than anyone thinks. _It’s like she carries the weight of the world in her eyes_ , he thinks. 

___“You’ve read the reports on Abraham Erskine’s Super Soldier Serum, yes?” she asks._  
“Oh the juice that gave Captain America a six-pack? I’ve- uh, skimmed it.” he says, rubbing his neck, embarrassed.  
“Erskine believed that the serum enhanced those injected with it. He believed it helped fuel the Red Skull’s delusions and cruelty and enhanced Captain America’s courage and goodness. I believe that the chemical given to Ivan and I was derived from it.”  
“You’re shitting me.” She laughs and shakes her head sadly.  
“It makes me stronger, healthier. It made me more a better killer.” She looks up, blinking rapidly and he’s shocked to see tears swimming in her eyes. “It made Ivan manipulative, petty, and resentful. Not long before I ran from Red Room he-” 

__A sick feeling swells in the pit of Clint’s stomach. _The fucking BASTARD._ “Natasha,” he stops himself before actually touching her, realizing it might hurt more than help right now. “did he- did he hurt you?”  
The bark of laughter she lets out sounds closer to a sob. “It wasn’t like that, Clint. He never touched me. But before I left he kept hinting that I was a grown woman now and that he’d always thought I was ‘beautiful’. He called me Tsarina. His little princess.” She wipes the sweat off her forehead and her veil falls again, her face back to its usual calm mask. “So no. In hindsight, he wasn’t much of a father figure.”_ _

__“My dad wasn’t much to admire either.” He says quietly. “He drank too much. Hit us on occasion. Got himself and my mom killed in a car accident when I was just a kid.” He gently lays his hand over hers. “Just y’know, lettin’ you know you’re not the only damaged one at the table.”_ _

___They spend the night in the wilderness of New Mexico, 50 feet up from where they’d started. The next morning she can hear Clint grumbling in his sleeping bag as his phone rings loudly. In the low light provided by the rising sun outside the tent she finds it the pocket of the shorts he’d worn the day before._  
“Answer it for me, Tasha. S’probably Phil complainin’ bout my damn paperwork again.”  
“Romanoff.” She answers the phone, lying back down in the warmth of her sleeping bag.  
“Why are you answering Agent Barton’s phone, Romanoff?” Fury responds sharply.  
“He thought you were Coulson and didn’t want to talk to him, sir.”  
“Sir?” Clint asks sleepily, punching his pillow into shape. “Why you callin’ Coulson sir?” She smiles when his eyes fly open and he scrambles across the tent to snatch the phone. “Oh _fuck me_ , it’s Fury. Fuck fuck fuck. Yes, sir.” 

___“The fuck is going on, Barton?”_  
“If you must know, sir, she dragged me out into the desert and made me climb a cliff.”  
“Did she now?”  
“She did. I almost fell. You almost lost one of your best agents.”  
“Un-huh.” Fury replies noncommittally. “Listen, I need you guys to come in.”  
Clint whines loudly. “We just got off mission.”  
“You took a week to rebound after an 084 inspired episode. Vacation’s over. I need you back for something big.”  
“I’m putting you on speakerphone.” Clint says, putting the phone between them and looking away as Natasha wiggles around in her t-shirt, changing her bra. 

___“A terrorist group in Cameroon led by a man named Atiku Yaradua has kidnapped 138 young girls. They have a history of marrying off most of them and forcing the rest to protect and fight for them.” Natasha stills, her eyes flickering to Clint’s. “We’ve been asked to bring them home.”_  
“We’ll be there.” Natasha says.  
“Good. Now get your asses over to the East coast. Coulson will meet you at the Triskelion.” 

__They don’t talk much on their trip back to the base and Clint neglects to mention it when he sees the speedometer inching closer and closer to illegal limits. Her hands on the wheel are clenched tightly and her back is pin straight. When they get to the New Mexico base, she takes the files from Sitwell and boards the jet without a word._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The detail that Natasha likes rock climbing comes from this panel of Black Widow Vol 2, issue #1, Right to a Life: part 1. http://stepchildofthesun.tumblr.com/post/32678851966/theartofsuffering-theres-only-one-cure-i#notes
> 
> In the comics, Ivan Petrovich is a sort of father figure to Natasha.  
> In Deadly Origins, he nearly dies after Natasha has been in the field for a while, a mysterious man (The Winter Soldier) gives her a chemical that will save his life and stall his aging. It's never really made clear (as far as I know) what this chemical was or what was in it. She also takes the drug and administers it to Ivan although he tries to refuse it. 
> 
> In the same comic, he also makes it clear in that comic that he's had (really gross) romantic feelings for her for some time. She immediately rejects the notion and she thinks that he'd get over it eventually. SPOILER: He doesn't get over it. He eventually makes himself into some sort of cyborg monster, infects her with a nanite STD that will kill all her ex-boyfriends, and tries to take over the world. Natasha is forced to kill him to save herself, her lovers, and the world. 
> 
> I'm unsure exactly where I'm going to go with Ivan in his story. I know he'll show up eventually and be just as creepy as he sounds but other than that I have very few plans. 
> 
> Read up more on Ivan's icky crush on Natasha here: (warnings for pseudo-incest, unwanted sexual advances, assault, threats of rape, and slut shaming) http://fuckyeahblackwidow.tumblr.com/post/6715540374/the-problem-of-ivan


	9. A Good Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Natasha go on a mission to save several children kidnapped by terrorists. Clint gets himself hurt and Natasha stresses out over both his injury and the fate of a little girl she tried to save.

… Natasha PoV …

The brief with Coulson is short and sweet and Fury wishes them luck from the conference phone in the middle of the table. “Strike Team Delta- that’s the two of you,” Coulson says to them, pushing an aerial photograph towards them. “will be dropped off about a mile from here. You will sneak in, verify that this location is where the captives are being held and notify us. Then we’ll arrive with the Calvary. We need to be very cautious. Last time these perps pulled a stunt like this, the rescue team was too slow. As soon as they were spotted, they started killing the captives.”

They suit up and move out barely an hour after meeting Coulson. Even in a quinjet, the flight there takes almost 10 hours. Clint is snoozing in the seat across from her and Coulson spends most the flight pacing the aisle and yelling at various people on his cell phone. 

She tries to relax, takes deep breaths and categorically lists every weapon on her (three Glocks with silencers, six taser disks, 4 flashbangs, garrote, a machete and 2 knives) and imagines killing Yaradua with each of them in order. It doesn’t help. Every time she blinks she sees the face of the youngest girl they took: age eight. According to her father’s tearful interview her birthday is next week. She looks horrifyingly like a girl Natasha knew from Red Room. A girl whom she’d seen killed by a bomb at around the same age. _I work for the good guys now. We will save them._ She looks between Coulson, Clint, and the pilot. _We have to save them._

They’re dropped off at the edge of the jungle after dark and using night vision goggles, they hack their way through the vines with machetes constantly keeping an eye on the GPS leading them. They move slowly and quietly keeping an eye out for snakes, spiders, and the millions of other dangers found in the jungle. By the time they reach the edge of the jungle they’re both drenched in sweat and breathing harder than normal. Beyond the tree line, the land opens up onto wide grasslands, with the camp several meters from the jungle edge. They silently circle the half of the perimeter that they can from behind the tree line. As they move they see several guards walking around and a couple of the girls here and there. Most of them look skinny and sad but none have noticeable bruises. _Not all wounds are visible_ , Natasha’s brain whispers to her. Clint calls it in and after a half hour of waiting, Natasha’s starting to get antsy. 

“They should be here by now, yes?” she whispers in his ear.  
“Yeah. Want me to call again?”  
“Give them another 20 minutes then do it.” They anxiously stand several feet from the tree line, waiting for Coulson’s response before calling him again. When Coulson’s voice answers in their earpieces, his response is flickering and mostly static.  
“We’ve been spotted - Yaradua’s followers. We’re on our way after -. Do not -. Repeat-not engage -backup.”

 

“Well shit.” Clint says, leaning back against a nearby tree.  
“You probably shouldn’t-” she starts before Clint recoils from the tree, clutching his right shoulder.  
 _“Fuck.”_ He stifles the curse quickly, doubled over in pain. Spotting the snake hanging from a tree branch, Natasha chops the creature in half with a swift flick of her blade and then is kneeling next to him, pushing his goggles up.  
“Look at me.” He groans. “Clint, _look_ at me.” She lifts his head and opens his eyes wide to examine his pupils. _It’s fucking PITCH BLACK out here, Natasha, his pupil size won’t tell you anything_ , she thinks. “Relax and breathe.” He complies and groans again when his shoulder starts cramping. 

“Who is that back there? Julien? Are you okay?” a concerned voice asks in heavily accented French. Clint clasps a hand over his mouth and waves his hand dismissively. She hesitates a moment, her hand on his good shoulder before slipping through the forest easily as the snake that bit her partner. The man tromping through the forest has no warning before she’s on his back, garrote around his throat. He flails grasping at the nape of her neck and she’s suddenly very grateful she put her hair up for this mission, even if it was just to keep insects out of it. It doesn’t take long for his knees to give out as he chokes to death. She drags him off the path and leaves him for the animals before returning to Clint. 

As soon as she spots him, she knows something is wrong. She draws her knife backhanded and approaches slowly. He’s slowly turning in circles, his bow drawn although its wavering as his shoulder twitches. When she steps into his line of sight, he pulls the string back further nervously and her heart skips a beat.  
“Clint, it’s me, Natasha. What’s going on?”  
“You didn’t-” he lowers his bow slightly, turning again, favoring his left side. “You can’t hear it?” She freezes and takes a second to focus on the sounds of the jungle around them. Very quietly, to her right she hears the rustle of a branch moving and a soft hiss. 'Cat.' He mouths. 

“Akwo!” a voice calls from outside the jungle. They freeze and turn to the noise. “Akwo! Hurry up, you are taking so long!” a voice calls in French.  
Natasha taps Clint’s shoulder to get his attention, before pointing to herself, where they’d heard the cat, and then to the camp, wiggling her fingers downward to mimic running. She pokes him in the chest lightly before pointing to the ground and mouthing the word ‘stay’. He shakes his head vigorously and reaches out for her but she slips out of his reach and rushes through the jungle. 

When she catches sight of the cat out of the corner of her eye, her heart stutters. _Christ Almighty, a cheetah. I can’t outrun a cheetah._ But she presses on, slipping under branches, arms pumping at her sides. When she emerges from the forest she can almost feel the cat’s hot breath on her spine. The man in front of her raises his gun but she darts to the side, revealing the cat. His shot only grazes the cat before the animal is on him. He plants his feet in her belly, screaming in French so rapid even Natasha can’t keep up. It only takes her a second to disappear back into the forest. 

She leans over, hands on her knees to catch her breath and her heartbeat pounds in her ears deafeningly. When a hand lands on her shoulder, she’s got her gun in his face in a second before she even realizes its Clint. “I told you to stay.” she pants.  
He shrugs. “You know what they say about old dogs and new tricks.” She looks at him perplexed.  
“Whatever, I’ll explain later.” He says, turning back to the camp when they hear another gunshot. The cat lies dead on the ground with the man she mauled bleeding beside her while his allies hover around, attempting to save him. A man stands in the doorway of the building behind them. Past him, they can see rows and rows of bodies lying on the floor in blankets. _The children._  
“If he’s not dead-” she whispers.  
“They’ll know we’re here. And they’ll kill the girls.” He says as one of them stands and starts peering into the jungle, rifle raised.

“Can you fight?” she asks.  
“Psh. Are clowns creepy?” She turns to him, confused again. “The answer’s yes, Romanoff.” He whispers. “ Yes, clowns are creepy and yes, I can fight.”  
She huffs a silent laugh and draws her guns.  
Clint clicks his earpiece, calling Coulson again. “Moving in now, sir. They already know we’re here.”  
“Barton no, we’re-” Clint quickly clicks a button on the piece, cutting Coulson off. He draws his bow and they move at the same time. 

The man in the doorway falls backwards with an arrow in his face before they even make it out of the jungle. The others fall quickly after from either arrows or bullets. As they enter the long building, Natasha shoots another man approaching from the side and Clint drops one at the other end of the hall, reaching for a child. By now, many of the girls are awake and looking around terrified.  
“We are here to bring you home.” She says in French. “Stay down and cover your heads.”  
“Nat.” Clint says, looking around them, having swiftly counted them. “This isn’t all of them. There are only one hundred and twenty three are here. Fifteen are missing.”  
She kneels down next to the nearest child, holstering her guns. “Where are the others?” She asks softly, in French.  
“With Monsieur Atiku.” The child stutters.

“And where is he?”  
“In his home, on the other side of camp.” Heat and anger flood Natasha as she vividly imagines all the horrible things a terrorist could do to a young girl.  
“It has a flag next to the door.” The girl lying beside her says, shakily.  
“Thank you. This is Monsieur Clint. He will protect and help you.” She says gently. “His French is very poor, however, so speak slowly.”  
“I understood that.” Clint says in French and the girl smiles. 

Natasha moves to Clint and shoves him back into a chair near the door. “Keep wiggling your fingers.”  
“Will that help?”  
“I don’t _know_ , Clint.” She says, angrily, surprising them both. “But I know if you can move your fingers, you’re not paralyzed.”  
“That’s… good. I don’t want to be paralyzed.” He says, rubbing his neck and leaning over slightly. The color in his cheeks makes her worry for him, but she needs to move.  
She kneels down next to the girl she spoke to again. “Monsieur Clint has been bitten by a snake. The snake is gone but he is not well. Watch after him. Very soon, many men will arrive with this” she points to the eagle emblem on her shoulder “bird on their uniforms. Tell them that he’s been bitten and anything else he does between now and then. Can you do that?” The girl bites her lip and nods. Natasha rubs a hand over her hair. “Thank you, ma chére.” 

Perhaps it’s the fury coursing through her veins like fire or another after affect of the 084, but she barely remembers dealing with the men between the children’s sleeping quarters and Yaradua’s little hut. She kicks the door in and it bangs open easily before slipping closed beside her. In the large one room hut stands a table crowded by a dozen chairs and a large and unkempt bed. All but one of the children stand against the wall behind the table, crowded together. The last is standing in front of the bed with Yaradua behind her, gun to her head, her hands twisted behind her back. 

She freezes. The girl only looks to be about ten years old. By the time Natasha had been this child’s age she’d already been grappled in that hold 50 times. She clearly recalls the way the bones of the wrist crunch when you twist just right. The girl cries quietly, her lip quivering.  
“Let the girl go.” Natasha says slowly in French.  
“Do you think I am crazy? As soon as I do, you will kill me!” the man shouts in English. He digs the gun into the child’s head and she flinches away, whimpering.  
 _If you do not, I'll kill you_ , Natasha thinks. She knows how fast she can shoot him and knows it won’t be fast enough. _I have to try._ She takes a breath and clenches her teeth. Her shot hits him in the chest, barely two centimeters above the girl’s head. 

Except he fired too. The girl falls before he does, crumpling at his feet. Natasha rushes to her side, kicking the gun away from Yaradua and falls to her knees as he falls backwards. She smacks her comm, calling Coulson before cupping her hands around the girl’s head, holding the little girl’s skull together.  
“Please god, answer me Coulson. I need backup, I need backup, Ineedbackup-” she lets out a sob when he answers her.  
“We’re here, Natasha. We’re here.”  
And then Nick Fury kicks open the door and points his gun at the man dying noisily next to her. “This him?” he asks. Natasha nods one. Fury puts a bullet in the man’s eye before shouting loudly for a medic. 

She feels like she’s seeing through a fog as the doctors push her away. Further in the back of the room, Nick Fury sits down cross legged in front of the other children. “My name is Nick Fury.” He says slowly, in English. “I’m here to help. Can you understand me?” Many of them nod yes. “Are any of you hurt?”  
“Daniela thinks she broke her arm.” One of them answers, pointing to another child cradling her arm.  
“He shot Nadia in the head.” One of them says very quietly in French.  
“And we will help her.” Fury says in poorly pronounced French. “But my French is not very good, so speak in English please.” 

On and on he asks questions and the children answer him, while Natasha kneels there transfixed. This is Fury as she’s never seen him. She’s seen him knock men across the room when sparring, seen him shoot a man in the leg from a hundred and seventy meters away, seen him talk down angry terrorists, and seen him convince the World Security Council that even the Black Widow could be an agent of good- but she’s never seen Nick Fury hold a little girl’s hand.  
She’s never seen Nick Fury softly whisper consoling things in broken French, never seen him offer a group of kids a bag of candy from his inside coat pocket, never seen him hold a child on his lap and let her cry into his thick leather coat. 

She always known Nick Fury worked for the good guys, that he saved people. But somehow, it never occurred to her that he was a good man- a kind man. A man who understood the horrors that these kids had seen and done- of what she’s seen and done. Natasha barely notices when Clint clumsily muscles his way into the room, holding his now bandaged shoulder. He’s just dragged her to her feet when Fury approaches. Clint takes a half step in front of her. “Director, this is my fault, I should have-” Fury pushes him out of the way and crushes Natasha in a hug. Later, thinking about it, Natasha can’t tell if she froze up because she was still in shock or if it was simply not knowing how to react to an embrace from Nick Fury.

“You did good.” He says, rubbing her back lightly. “You saved them.”  
“Not all of them.” she chokes out, looking down at the blood and _oh god_ is that skull fragments on her hands. Fury shushes her and smoothes his hand over her face, pushing her hair out of her face while Clint rubs her back.  
Their comms crackle to life at the same time and Natasha can hear Coulson’s voice from both her own and Fury’s earpiece. “She’s breathing.” Natasha rushes outside, spotting Coulson’s Kevlar vest covered suit easily. 

Nearly a dozen doctors bustle around the child’s gurney, covered in her blood just as Natasha is. There’s an oxygen mask on her face and IVs in her arm. Coulson’s glance at her bloody hands is subtle. “From what I can gather, she’s doing remarkably well.” He turns fully to her as Clint and Fury walk up beside them. “Without you she’d have lost a lot more blood. She might have-”  
Beside her, Clint falls to his knees in the grass and vomits. “Get him the hell out of here!” one of the doctors yells angrily.  
Natasha and Coulson lead him over to a nearby crate of medical supplies and he drops down heavily. “Did you tell them about the bite?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Clint says.  
“What bite?” Coulson asks at the same time. “Did the cheetah-” he asks, looking back in the direction of the dead cat.  
“No, it was a snake.” Natasha says before calling the nearest nurse over. “He’s been bitten in the right shoulder by what was probably a bush snake. I killed it. The body should be about 10 meters back in the jungle.” she says, pointing.  
“We'll send someone to find it.” The man says, shooing her away.  
“You don’t look too great yourself.” Coulson says as the doctor leads Clint to a nearby gurney.  
“I’ll be fine.” She says dismissively, moving to keep both the girl and Clint in sight. 

“Files said her name is Nadia.” Coulson says, clasping his hands in front of him. “Nine years old. November birthday, like you.” She glances at him, eyebrow raised. “Well, like the randomly chosen birth date stated on your driver’s license, in any case.” He’s quiet for several more minutes. “You know, I don’t recall ever seeing Fury hug anyone before. Then again, doing what we do, not much cause for it but-”  
“Phil,” she says quietly. “please stop talking.”  
“Right. Sorry.” He says, pursing his lips awkwardly.  
“Thank you.” She says after a few moments. “For telling me her name.” He nods. “Are her parents…”  
“They’ve been notified. I made that call myself.”

“Madame!” a child calls from behind her, the child she’d first spoken to. She watches Clint as he winces while the nurse pushes a needle into his arm. “I told them!” she says in frantic French. “I told them he was hurt but he would not let them help him. Will he be okay? I heard Nadia was shot! Was Monsieur Clint shot also?”  
Natasha kneels down to her height, as Coulson wanders off to a group of agents in suits nearby. “I know, I know.” She says, taking the girl’s hand. “He will be alright. It was a very little snake. He was not shot.” Natasha glances back to Nadia’s still form and leads the girl away by the hand. “Nadia was shot. I-” she clears her throat and continues, her voice thick with emotion. “I could not stop him in time. But the doctors helping her are very good. They will do their best to save her.” 

They come to the outskirts of the camp, lit by dozens of large work lights, furthest from the jungle where the girls are sitting in the grass with dozens of agents walking among them, passing out bottles of water and sandwiches. Natasha’s heart gives an uncomfortable pang, as she imagines a team of SHIELD agents in suits and ties making hundreds of ham and cheese sandwiches. “Are you hungry?” Natasha asks, grabbing a bottle of water from a nearby cart. The girl nods, gratefully accepting the sandwich Natasha passes her.  
“I am Esther.” She says as they sit cross legged in the grass. Esther quickly devours half the sandwich while Natasha slowly drinks her water and pours some onto her hands to rub on her face and neck. “Do you want some?” the girl suddenly asks with her mouth full, offering Natasha her sandwich with both hands. 

“I will get my own.” Natasha says in French, blinking rapidly as she walks over to the cart. She returns with her own and a second sandwich which Esther gratefully accepts. Sitting next to Esther are two more girls, slowly eating sandwiches and whispering in rapid French. They freeze when they see Natasha.  
“Are you going to take us home?” Esther asks.  
“Yes. Those people over there,” she points to the dozens of agents across the field, all on cell phones and holding clipboards. “are calling your families. We’ll take you there in a few hours.”  
The child to Esther’s right looks towards where Nadia lies, still surrounded by a full med team. “What about Nadia? Will she go home?” 

Natasha chews her lip for a moment, thinking. “Yes. But right now she’s very hurt. We will take her to a very good hospital. There is someone on the way now to bring her parents here.”  
“In case she dies?” Natasha nods, her throat tight.  
The girl puts her cool hand on Natasha’s sweating one. “Thank you.”  
Natasha gives her a watery smile before quickly excusing herself and heading to the outskirts of the base they’d set up. 

She’s sitting on the edge of a sandwich cart, a cold water bottle pressed to her forehead when she hears Fury's shuffling footsteps behind her accompanied by the rustling of his heavy coat.  
“Barton’s puking his guts out and the med team damn near has a heart attack every time he moves, but he’s doing alright.” Natasha nods without looking at him as he sits down beside her, cracking open a water bottle. “They say the snake was hemotoxic. Means it-”  
“Destroys red blood cells.” She looks up at him “God that could’ve-”  
He puts a hand on her shoulder, and her eyes travel from his calloused hand up his arm to his face. He’s staring at her gently. She’s still not used to this, not used to others caring for her, not used to her handlers giving a damn about her aside from if she completed the mission. 

“Relax. You saved his ass. They say it would’ve been a hell of a lot worse if he’d been injured but he hasn’t got a scratch on him. They tell me he’s not allowed back in the field for at least 6 weeks and are trying to talk me into 12.” She looks up at him. Since joining SHIELD, she’s never been in the field completely alone. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m not sending you anywhere without your partner yet.” He says.  
“Thank you, Director.”  
“Thought you might take some time to yourself.” She tilts her head, confused. “Y’know. See the sights, relax. Maybe drop by Barton’s place every few days, make sure he’s not just laying around eating cookies and potato chips.” She smiles faintly, remembering the first time they’d been on a car stakeout and he feigned a heart attack upon hearing she’d never tried an Oreo cookie before.  
“Yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both the mission with the kidnapped girls and the character Atiku Yaradua are heavily inspired by the Chibok schoolgirl kidnapping in April 2014 and Boko Haram the terrorist organization that perpetrated the attack.
> 
> It seems that in most of the comics continuity, Clint is right handed, holding it with his left and drawing with his right. In MCU however, it seems he’s ambidextrous, drawing with the right in Thor and with the left in The Avengers (I’ve also seen a handful of pages in Matt Fracton’s Hawkeye where he draws with the left but they’re rare). In homage to the movies and Jeremy Renner (who is a lefty), I’ve made Clint’s dominant hand the left. 
> 
> Yes I know there are (as far as I can tell) no big cats in the Cameroon jungles but I wanted that scene and didn’t feel like changing the entire setting. So it’s a really hungry cheetah that usually lives in the grasslands on the other side of the jungle.


	10. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint wakes up on the hellicarrier and talks with Natasha and Phil.

…Clint PoV…

He groans loudly as he wakes, the lights feel too bright and he feels like every part of his body weighs a million pounds. To his left he hears movement. His eyelids feel glued shut and the brightness of the room nearly blinds him but he’d recognize that flash of red hair anywhere.  
“Hey, Nat.” he says, quietly and his voice sounds like broken glass scraping a chalkboard.  
“Shhh. Have some water. You’ve been out for a while.” He greedily drinks from the straw she offers him and the water’s so cold it almost makes his hurt even more.  
“How long?” he asks, blinking sleep from his eyes as she pulls the cup away. 

She glances at the watch on her wrist. “It’s two am, so about three hours. You fell asleep on the ride up here. We’re on the hellicarrier above the Gulf of Guinea.” He moves to sit up and her hands slip under his arms, hoisting him up into a sitting position as if he weighed no more than a doll. He arches an eyebrow at her in question. “Your doctor said that you should move very slowly and carefully. Internal bleeding is still a large possibility.” He lets his head flop back against the pillow and turns to her as she sits down. Behind her chair he can see the bed across from him. In the center, seemingly swallowed by the white sheets and IVs lies the little girl Natasha had saved. Natasha follows his eyes and pushes her chair out of the way. The girl’s head is covered with so many bandages he can barely see her face around them and the pillow. She lies on her side, her hand curled around a teddy bear wearing a pink bow around its neck. 

“Her name is Nadia.”  
“I heard. Her parents?”  
“Getting coffee.” She says, gently untangling the wires of his IV drip.  
“They bring the-” he nods in the direction of the bear. She blushes and he grins widely. “Did you really go buy a teddy bear from the commissary? Like without a disguise or anything?”  
“Shut up, Barton. Her parents hadn’t arrived yet and I didn't want her to be scared when she woke up. I went down while Coulson was here. He swears she smiles at one of his jokes.”  
“Bullet must’ve done more damage than they realized.” She shoots him a dark glare and he raises his hands in surrender. 

“Yeah it was a bad joke. Forgive me. I’d ask you not to kill me but I feel half dead anyway, so at this point it might be a mercy.”  
She ignored him and reaches for his right hand. Her hands are warm and sure as she gently rubs and pokes along his arm. “You feel that?”  
“Y- yeah.” _I must be on so many drugs because there’s no way that should feel as good as it does_ , he thinks, clearing his throat.  
“It doesn’t hurt?”  
“No. Should be good as new in what, a week or two?”  
“Try six.” She says, pushing the sleeve of his hospital gown up to examine the patch covering the bite. 

His head rolls back limply as he looks at her. “I’m sorry, I’m on a lot of drugs right now but it sounded like you said six. Did you say six?” she smiles at him lightly, gently placing his arm back across his lap.  
“Yeah. The med team is still lobbying Fury for twelve so get comfy.”  
“Six?” he whines. “I can’t be out of the field for six weeks! Who’s gonna cover your ass?” she arches an eyebrow. “Not that you need it but-”  
“You’re my partner.” She says, sitting back in her chair. “I understand. Besides, Fury’s given me time off also. He suggested I… see the sights.”  
“Oh.”  
“And make sure you’re not just lying around eating junk food and wallowing.” 

“I wouldn’t wallow.”  
“Of course not, Barton.” She says, smirking. “That would be below you.”  
“D- damn right it would be.” He says, yawning.  
“Sleep, if you’re tired.” She says, curling up in her chair and closing her eyes. “I’ll be right here.” He wonders how long she’s been without sleep now. _Twenty hours? More?_  
“You don’t have to-”  
“Shut up and rest, Clint.”  
“You can go back to your-”  
The glare she gives him might’ve made him flinch if it wasn’t ruined a second later by her huge yawn. He laughs and settles back to watch her through his eyelashes as he waits for sleep to claim him again. 

The next time he wakes, it’s to the sound of weeping.  
Across the room from him, blocking Nadia from sight stands a couple. The woman is bent over the bed, sobbing quietly, while the man rubs her back and rambles on and on in soothing quiet French. In the corner of the room, Natasha is leaning against the window with her arms crossed, watching her shoes.  
Clint watches her for several moments trying to catch her eye before the weeping woman addresses Natasha. 

_“Thank you.”_ She says in French. “You saved my daughter. My only daughter. Thank you thank you thank you.”  
Natasha uses the tip of her shoe to scrub away a mark on the floor. “I am sorry I could not do more.” She says slowly enough that Clint can understand her, even while drugged up.  
“She is alive.” Nadia’s father says, crossing the room and grasping her hand lightly. “She is alive and safe now and we thank you.”  
Choking down a hiccupping sob, Nadia’s mother clutches Natasha around the middle. 

Clint snickers to himself. _Two hugs in twenty four hours? That’s got to be a first for her._ Clint’s heart aches with the realization. _Natasha could probably use some more hugs. I should hug her more often. Or y’know- ever._ The thought makes him wonder how she would feel in his arms, the soft fabric of her uniform against his bare arms, if she would hug him back, how her hair would smell- _Whoa, cowboy_ , he thinks. _She ever finds out you have thoughts like that and you could earn a longer hospital stay than you already have._  
He watches as Natasha collapses into the hug, gently wrapping her arms around the shorter woman, pressing her face against her neck. The sight makes Clint’s throat tighten and he blinks his eyes dry. 

They continue talking so quietly Clint can no longer hear them over the hiss of Nadia’s oxygen mask and the rhythmic beeps from both their heart monitors. After several moments Natasha excuses herself and if he sees her wipe her eyes he ignores it. She stops at the foot of his bed, noticing he’s awake.  
She looks at her watch. “It’s four am. I’m going to get some coffee and start our paperwork. Do you want me to get you anything?” he shakes his head.  
“No. How’re they doing?” he asks, nodding to the couple now embracing one another. 

“Better than I would be.” She says, pushing her hair out of her face. “At least they’ve got each other.” She says it so quietly, so earnestly that he suddenly realizes she’s missing someone. Someone she probably loved. Someone she lost. He wonders if she lost them before he showed up or if he stole her away from that person.  
“You’ve-” _You’ve got me_ , he thinks. “For uh, what it’s worth, I’m here for you.” He says instead. She smiles so broadly that it almost erases the dark circles under her eyes.  
“Thanks Clint. I’ll be back soon.” She says, lightly tapping his foot before she leaves.

He’s fishing ice out of a Styrofoam cup with his straw when Coulson comes in. “Do you want a spoon?” he asks, sitting down on the bed by Clint’s hip.  
“Shaddup.” Clint says around the ice cube in his mouth.  
“I uh, saw Romanoff.” Coulson says quietly. Clint imagines Coulson coming across her in an empty hallway, her back to a wall, sobbing.  
“Oh yeah?” Clint says, keeping his voice as casual as possible.  
“She said she was on her coffee break. She didn’t look too good.” Clint nods grimly. “She was grounding herself.”

“What?” Clint asks, confused.  
“Grounding. Touching the things around her and describing them to herself. It’s a stress relief technique. Her files say that New Mexico’s psych team suggested she use it to deal with triggering events.”  
“Triggering?”  
“She’s got PTSD, Barton.” He says abruptly.  
“Oh.” Clint remembers the fury on her face as she wiped a church floor with AIM goons and the way she’d fought him afterwards, as if she was seeing someone else’s face instead of his. “I uh, probably should’ve realized that, huh?”

“You’re not trained to diagnose anyone, Barton.”  
“I know. I just…” Clint lets his head fall back and stares at the ceiling above him. “Girl’s had a lot of bad things happen to her. I just wanna- I wanna help her. Wanna help her see that things get better. That she doesn’t have to be afraid anymore, that we’re here for her.” When he looks back to Phil, he’s wearing the familiar frown that says ‘Barton’s done something really stupid and I’m about to lecture him about it’.  
“You’ve got a lot of feelings about her.” He says quietly.  
“Feelings?” Clint says, his voice a bit higher than normal. “Who-” he clears his throat awkwardly. “Who said I’ve got feelings about her? She’s just my partner.”

The look Phil gives him takes him back almost fifteen years, to when he was nineteen, just a stupid kid beat to hell and handcuffed to a table in Atlanta. It’s his ‘Don’t bullshit me, son’ look and Clint can’t hold up to it any better now than he did back then.  
“I dunno, Phil.” Clint says, rubbing his eyes. “It’s not like you think. I mean yeah, sure, she’s fucking gorgeous. Everyone with eyes can see that. But it’s more than that.” Coulson arches one eyebrow high. “I mean, Christ it’s not like I’m _in love_ with the girl. I just wanna be there for her. Be a friend. Make sure she’s happy.”

Coulson props his elbow on his knee, resting his head against his hand. “You sure you’re not in too deep? I don’t want to see you hurt, Clint.”  
“Relax, old man.” Clint says, nudging Phil’s hip with his knee. “I’m a big boy. My feelings won’t be hurt if she doesn’t want to be my BFF.”  
Phil sighs and gives him a small smile. “I’m just watching your back, Barton. If she hurts you, she’ll have hell to pay.”  
“Of all the people in the world you’ve threatened, Phil, I think she’d be the one most likely to make you regret it.” 

“Unlikely.” Phil says, standing up and brushing the wrinkles from his ill fitting suit. He taps Clint’s hand lightly. “Get better. I’ll call you every few days and try to visit.”  
Clint pops him a salute and a grin. “Don’t get shot while I’m not out there watching your back, Coulson. Who’d protect me from the big bad spider if you’re not around?”  
Phil shrugs. “Damned if I know. Just don’t let anything bite you again, alright?” he straightens his tie. “And I mean both snakes _and_ spiders, Clint.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I know this one's a short and quiet chapter. Any suggestions for things Clint and Natasha do while on leave is more than welcome!


	11. Self-Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha ignores her physical exhaustion and lets her guilt over what happened in Cameroon eat at her. Her fellow SHIELD agents think this is stupid and don't let her get away with it. After all, at SHIELD, people watch out for each other.

… Natasha PoV…

She hears the rustling of his coat and his heavy footsteps from all the way down the hall. His frown is reflected back at them in the glass wall separating the operating room from the rest of the med bay. Behind the glass, several doctors and nurses surround Nadia’s head. 

“How are things going?” he asks, clasping his hands together behind his back.  
“Her vitals are okay. Surgery’s been going for a while now. Her parents are finally asleep.”  
“Oh yeah? And what about you? You haven’t slept in a while either.”  
“Lent them my room, sir.” She says quietly.  
“You didn’t need-”  
“They were exhausted and the agent in charge of room assignment hadn’t had time to get to them.” she shrugs. “So I offered.” She looks away. “Couldn’t sleep much anyway.” 

Her heart stutters in surprise when his heavy hand lands on her shoulder. She can feel the warmth of his skin through her thin t-shirt and she looks at him tiredly. “You can’t keep going like this. You’ve barely slept since I called you in New Mexico, have you?”  
She considers lying for a second before shaking her head slightly. “When I do sleep I dream… and I don’t want anything to help me sleep either. That just makes it worse. I wake up sweaty and nervous and so disoriented I can barely find the safety on my gun.” 

“Yeah.” He pats her shoulder lightly before shoving his hands in his pockets. “I know that feeling.” She looks up at him, surprised. She’d expected him to be annoyed and suspicious at her admission to sleeping next to her handgun- not for him to all but admit he does the same thing.  
“But you have to sleep, Agent Romanoff. Get down to the gym or range and work it off. You need your rest too.”  
“Yes, sir.” She says tightly, taking one long look at Nadia’s thin arm, her hospital bracelet hanging next to her colorful beaded one. 

When she arrives, the gym is empty. She wraps her knuckles before starting on the punching bag. Her hair sticks to her forehead and she’s breathing hard by the time Maria Hill walks in. Natasha wipes her brow, raising her hand in acknowledgment.  
“Heard the girl was doing alright.” Maria says, stretching.  
“She’s in surgery. Decompressive craniectomy. Still hasn’t woken up.”  
“She’s breathing.” Maria says, wincing as her back pops loudly. “Which is more than the asshole who took her can say.”  
“She’s in a _coma_ , Hill.” Natasha says, hitting the bag harder than she normally would. The chain holding it makes a harsh metal on metal sound and Natasha ignores it, hitting it again and again.  
“At least she’s with her family.” Maria says getting up. 

“How about taking some of that anger out on me instead of gym equipment?”  
Natasha spares her a short glance. “I don’t-” punch “want-” another punch “to hurt you.” Natasha says finishing with a roundhouse kick that sends the bag swinging wildly. _I’ve gotten enough people hurt for the day_ , Natasha thinks.  
“Egotistical much?” Maria says, stilling the bag. “Come on. I’ve been around the block before.”  
Natasha punches the bag again. “Not with me, you haven’t. You’ve seen me wipe the floor with men triple your size.”  
“What then?” Maria says, glaring. “You just gonna break all the punching bags and act like you’re perfectly fine?” 

Natasha punches the bag harder. “I am-”  
“Don’t feed me that bullshit, Romanoff, it won’t work on me.” Maria says sharply. Natasha punches the bag hard enough to rock Maria back on her heels. “I know what it’s like to have a mission go sideways and to see innocents hurt. It sucks. But you let it eat at you and you’ll burn out fast.” Maria’s voice softens as Natasha’s shoulders sag. “I’ve seen it happen to good agents. Just because you’re one of the best doesn’t make you immune.”  
Natasha stares at her for a second before shrugging. “If you insist.” Natasha says, punching the bag hard enough to send Maria back a step. Natasha rolls her neck as she approaches the mat. 

They circle one another for several long seconds before Maria throws the first punch. Natasha blocks it clumsily and grits her teeth in pain before her fist is flying at Maria’s face faster than Maria can move. Maria takes the hit to the nose hard, stumbling back, wiping the blood away from her face with the back of her hand.  
Natasha leaps into a high kick and Maria rolls under her, grabbing her leg. Natasha lets out a curse in Russian as her face hits the mat hard. She flips her hair out of her face and Maria grins at her.  
“Blood for blood, eh, Widow?” Maria asks, falling back into stance. Natasha licks her lip and is a little surprised to taste her blood. 

“Didn’t know you were the type to keep score, Hill.” Natasha says, regaining her feet fluidly. She circles Maria, waiting for her to make a move. When Maria aims another punch at her, Natasha dodges but not in time to avoid the knee Maria brings up into her belly. Natasha whips her bare foot around Maria’s leg and yanks back, following her to the floor, one of Maria’s legs trapped in hers, her hands pinning Maria’s shoulders to the mat.  
On Maria’s shoulder, under the strap of Maria’s tanktop that Natasha’s hands moved is an ugly pink circle. _Gunshot wound_ , her mind supplies and she recalls some of the nastier shots she’s taken. She jerks her hand away quickly, remembering the sensation of another person’s hands on an old wound. Maria glances down and makes a face at the scar. 

“I was in the marines.” Maria says shrugging. “Parting gift from pirates that left me and my team to drown. Salt water in a gunshot wound is the worst.”  
Natasha snorts an approval and offers her a hand up. “My worst was a knife wound.” She raises her right hand, unwrapping her knuckles. “Straight through. Nicked the bones in a few places.” Maria takes her hand gently when Natasha extends it, examining both the palm and back of her hand thoroughly. Natasha ignores the flush that rises on her skin- it’s been years since someone looked at her skin so closely.  
“You can’t even tell. There isn’t even a scar.” Maria’s eyes narrow. “Wait. Are you bullshitting me?”

Natasha shakes her head, rewrapping her hand. “No. I had a really good surgeon. And I heal really well.” Natasha falls back into stance and Maria mirrors her. “But it did give me an opportunity to get really good with my left hand.”  
“At shooting or fighting?” Maria asks.  
“Both.” Natasha replies, smiling sharply as she aims a jab at Maria’s hip. Maria groans loudly at the impact but rotates with it, grabbing Natasha’s arm in both hands and twisting to the side with all the power in her legs and hips. 

Natasha blinks up at her in shock for a second before taking Maria’s hand and letting her pull her up from the floor.  
“What? You mad ‘cause I used your moves against you?” Maria asks, smiling. They continue sparing even as other agents enter the gym, a few standing around to watch. It’s clear to all of them after only a few minutes of watching, that Natasha is off her game. Maria’s dropped Natasha about five times more than the other way around when Natasha finds herself face down on the mat, her arm twisted painful around Maria’s outstretched leg. 

“Aunt” Natasha groans, her shoulder twitching painfully.  
“What?” Maria asks, leaning closer.  
“I said Aunt, Hill.” Natasha says louder. “I give up.”  
Maria’s laugh is surprisingly loud in the quiet gym and a few of the other agents chuckle. Maria untangles herself from Natasha before standing. “It’s uncle, Romanoff.” Maria says, pulling Natasha to her feet easily. “Did I beat the guilt out of you yet,” Maria asks quietly “or you need to go a few more rounds?”

Natasha rolls her shoulder and lets her hair cover her burning cheeks. “No, but… thanks.” Natasha glances up at the taller woman and is a little surprised to see her smiling.  
“Don’t look so surprised, Romanoff. You’re with us now. We watch out for our own. You saved a lot of kids today. Don’t beat yourself up over this. There’s nothing you could have done.”  
“Maybe.” Natasha says, rubbing her neck. “Maybe I could have.” She sighs. “I don’t know…” Maria puts a hand on her unhurt shoulder and squeezes lightly.  
“I’ll make sure someone notifies you if anything happens to the girl or Hawkeye. Try to get some shut eye.” Natasha nods, biting her lip.  
“Thanks.” 

Back in her quarters, which are thankfully empty, she peels off her sweaty clothes and drops into bed. It’s probably the deepest sleep she’s had in years and she’s still groggy when she hears the familiar click of the door lock. She’s got her gun leveled at Coulson before he even opens the door all the way. He holds his hands up in surrender when he sees the gun in her hand and averts his eyes when he sees how little she’s wearing.  
“What is it, Coulson?”  
“Nadia is out of surgery.” Natasha’s lungs empty in a rush and her arms sag. 

“How is she?” She asks, dropping the gun onto her white sheets and pulling on a t-shirt over her thin tank top.  
“Good.” Coulson says. He closes the door and keeps his back to her as she pulls on a pair of jeans. “She’s still not awake but the surgeon says she’s doing remarkably well. Her family was with her when I left.”  
“You can turn around now.” She says, pulling a pair of sneakers on her bare feet. “And Clint?”  
“He’s doing good. Grateful you finally got some real sleep.”  
Natasha yawns and looks at her watch, blinking at it sleepily.  
“It’s 6pm, Natasha. You need to get some food in you.” 

“I’m fine-” she says, just as her stomach grumbles loudly.  
“Uh-huh and I’ve got a date with Captain America this weekend. Let’s go.” He says, holding her door open for her. She rubs her eyes, stretching and lets him lead her down the hall to the cafeteria. “I heard you and Maria put on a hell of a show for the trainees a few hours ago.” He says conversationally.  
“What? Oh. Yeah. She uh- she’s good.”  
“I heard she kicked your ass.” Fury says, appearing out of the hallway beside theirs. “I congratulated her.”  
“I’m not exactly at my best right now, Director Fury.” Natasha says dryly. 

“Clearly. Although I’m sure you’ll make her regret it eventually.” He says, handing her and Coulson trays as they enter the cafeteria. She barely pays attention to what she puts on her plate, just choosing whatever looks easiest to swallow and dropping into the nearest chair. Fury sits across from her and Coulson beside her.  
She rests her head on one hand as she eats and barely reacts when Phil pushes a mineral water in front of her.  
“Drink.” He says in his authoritative voice. “You’re probably dehydrated. We don’t need you in a hospital bed too.” She takes a few sips, letting her eyes fall on Fury. He’s finally swapped his typical turtleneck and leather jacket for a black t-shirt with the SHIELD emblem. 

“I don’t want to send a babysitter with you on vacation, Romanoff.” Fury says, after taking a large bite of his sandwich. “But I will if I have to. I can’t have my best damn strike team falling apart.”  
Natasha glances up at him, surprised. She remembers a scene like this, back from Red Room. Except then, her handler had threatened to have her “deactivated” if she didn’t get herself back to mission readiness. She remembers Clint, lying in a bed barely able to move his own fingers. She remembers Nadia, bandages covering nearly her entire face. _I saved them_ , she thinks. _They’re in pain but I saved them. And I can’t do it again while I am like this._  
She takes a deep breath and a large sip of mineral water. “Yes, sir. There is no need for a… babysitter.”  
“Good.” Fury takes a long drink of coffee before looking to her again. “Any vacation plans?”

“Sir?”  
“You’ll be taking a few weeks off. Any idea what you’re going to do?” Fury says.  
Natasha bites her lip and rubs the back of her neck. “I, uh, had not really considered it.”  
“The Smithsonian museums in Washington is quite enjoyable.” Coulson says quietly. “Barton mentioned you have a fondness for history. My favorite is the Museum of American History.”  
Fury smiles. “They still have the Captain America exhibit, then?”  
Coulson turns a little pink around the ears and Natasha stares. “I don’t understand.” She says, confused. “I thought Captain America was an iconic figure in American history. Am I wrong?”

“Agent Coulson is a bit of a fanboy, Romanoff. He collects the trading cards.” Fury says, chuckling.  
Again Natasha looks between them confused. “What is a trading card?”  
Fury laughs loudly and stands, picking up his litter covered tray. “I’ll leave you to it, Coulson. Have fun.” When Natasha looks back to Coulson, he’s pulled a handful of colorful cards out of his breast pocket. “They’re vintage.” He says, proudly. “I bought most of them on eBay but this one here” he holds up one with the words ‘BUY WAR BONDS’ printed at the top and featuring an image of Captain America pointing, “I bought in a tiny shop in Tirana a few years ago.”

“We were on a mission at the time.” Agent Sitwell says, sitting down across from her.  
“We were not.” Coulson replies, heatedly. “I bought it after the op was over.”  
“Oh sorry.” Sitwell says. “Let me rephrase: He went _antiquing_ while on a mission and actually _bought it_ later.” Behind Natasha, she can hear Fury’s echoing laughter.  
 _I wonder if this is what having a family is like_ , she thinks. The thought makes her heart stutter and she examines the lines at the corners of Coulson’s eyes and Sitwell’s small smile, searching for deception as she’d been trained. And for the first time in what feels like years, Natasha relaxes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I didn't really intend the dialogue with Nat and Maria sparring to come out quite as ho yay as it did but I'm just gonna roll with it. Don't expect anything to come of it, though. Natasha's got more of a thing for Clint and Maria's a little too cautious to date ex-KGB assassins.
> 
> Here are some images of Coulson's Captain America trading cards. The one he bought in Tirana is the last tan one on the left. http://www.geekalerts.com/agent-coulsons-vintage-captain-america-trading-card-set/


	12. Four Days After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Updates on how Nadia is doing, Clint whines a lot while bed ridden, Natasha tries to de-stress, trolls Clint relentlessly, and they get to know each other more.

… Clint PoV…

Four days after she was shot, the girl moved. 

They had been playing poker, he in his hospital bed, she in the chair beside him. In front of her sits a plastic cup filled to the brim with grapes, while his is nearly empty.   
He grins cockily and tosses his cards on the table between them. “Full house, baby.” He reaches for her grapes and she raps his knuckles lightly with her cards.  
“Straight flush, Hawkeye.” She says smiling.   
“Aw come on, woman. You’re stealing all my food. This isn’t fair.” Across the small table from him, she freezes. Before he can ask what’s going on, she’s dropped her cards and rushed to the other bed in the room. 

They both take a faltering breath when the fingers of Nadia’s left hand twitch. Natasha calls for a nurse and when they don’t respond immediately she stomps out after one. He half expects her to be dragging the head of medical in by the ear when she returns. Instead she’s got her hands stuffed in her tiny jean pockets and is gnawing on her lip.   
“You both saw it?” the doctor asks, checking the clipboard at the end of Nadia’s bed. He levels a skeptical look in Natasha’s direction. “You’re sure you didn’t… imagine it?”

Clint wonders if the air conditioning just kicked on or if it’s just the force of the Black Widow’s anger that makes the room feel like the temperature just dropped a few degrees. “We’re sure, doc.” He says quickly. “Hawkeye, remember. The snake got my shoulder not my pretty blue eyes.” The doctor spends several moments checking the paperwork before puttering around the girl’s bed, checking her heart monitor, her IV, her responsiveness and a dozen other things Clint doesn’t fully understand the importance of before crossing his arms and turning back to them.   
“You’re right. She did move. This is very good. I’ll be happy to tell her parents.” Before he leaves the room he turns back, a hand on the doorway. “And uh, Agent Romanoff?” Natasha turns to him coolly. “Thanks for letting us know. She’s uh… she’s lucky to have you looking out for her.” 

When Natasha turns back to him, her lip is bleeding. “You’ve got uh-” Clint yanks a clean tissue from the box and lifts it to her face.   
“What are you doing?” she asks, jerking back.   
“You’re bleeding.” He says.   
“Oh. I can-”  
“No, it’s fine. I’ve got it.” He tries to ignore the clenching of his heart as she closes her eyes and leans closer.   
It doesn’t work. 

Six days after she was shot, the girl opened her eyes. 

Her parents had been in the middle of a quiet conversation in French when Nadia’s mother jumped out of her chair and clutched her daughter’s hand. “She opened her eyes!” she cries in French. “Joseph! She looked at you!”   
Clint looks up from the comic book that Coulson lent him and watches Nadia’s parents lean over her bed, kissing her cheeks and talking quietly to one another. He grabs his phone from his bedside table.   
Me: (2:47pm): Nadia opened her eyes. Doesn’t look like she’s any more responsive than that tho.   
He wonders how long Natasha will spend making Maria regret giving her a busted lip before acknowledging her cell phone’s text alert. 

It’s not very long.   
Nat (2:56pm): On my way.  
She arrives barely moments after he receives her text. Her hair is plastered to her sweaty forehead and shoulders and he hides a grin when he sees her lip is busted again and the new bruise forming on the outside of her forearm, where she must have blocked one of Maria’s full body front kicks.   
They spot her as soon as she enters. “Agent Romanoff!” Nadia’s father exclaims in his heavily accented English before switching to rapid French. “She has opened her eyes! She looked at me!” he says through a blinding smile. 

“That is good, Joseph.” Natasha says quietly. “Her doctor says that is a good sign she is getting better.”   
“You have been so good to us, Agent Romanoff.”   
“Please, Joseph, call me Natasha.”  
“Natasha, we are so blessed that God sent you to us.” Nadia’s mother says, embracing her.   
“I was just doing my job, Delphine.” Natasha says, hugging the woman tightly. “She is lucky to have a family like you.”   
“It seems, Natasha,” Joseph says slowly, looking at Clint over Natasha’s shoulder, “that you have found a family here.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “You are very lucky to have them. You should not waste your blessings by focusing on the past.” 

Clint looks away, a little flushed. He suddenly feels like he should excuse himself from this very private moment. He opens his comic book and states at the page but can’t focus enough while trying so hard to ignore their quiet conversation. Several moments later, she sits down beside him on the bed.   
“I heard that you will be released in a few days.” She says.   
“Yeah. I’m probably going back to my apartment in DC, not that far from Homebase. I’m planning on kicking back with a bag of cheetos and a stack of kung-fu movies.”  
“I was… um, Agent Coulson suggested I visit the Smithsonian in DC… If you’d like, I wouldn’t mind company.” She says quietly. 

“Did the Black Widow just invite me to a museum?”   
She cracks a small smile. “Yes. Yes, she did.”   
“I’d love to.” He says. “But only if we stop in the American History gift shop and get a souvenir for Coulson.”   
“Naturally, Hawkeye.”

Eight days after she was shot, the girl woke up. 

“Maman?”  
Clint blinks into the darkness of his room and wonders if he was dreaming.   
But then he hears her voice again, soft and scared. “Maman? Papa?”   
“Nadia?”   
“Where am I?” she asks in French.   
He yanks on the cord and winces as bright florescent light floods the room. “You’re in a hospital.” He says slowly, in French. “My name is Clint. Your parents are sleeping. I will send someone to get them.” he presses the call button before climbing out of bed and crossing the room. He sits down in the chair beside her bed and readjusts the sling on his arm.

“What happened?” she asks.  
“We saved you. My associate stopped Yaradua but you were hurt in the fight.”  
Her hand goes to her bandaged head. “I was… he shot me… in the head?”  
Clint nods and takes her hand “Yes, but you are safe now. Our doctors are very good. They helped you.”  
“Is there anything you need, Agent Barton?” the nurse asks as he enters the room. He freezes when he sees Nadia blinking at him slowly. “Call Doctor Reid!” the man shouts behind him before quickly checking all her vitals and asking her questions in French so fluid and quick, Clint can’t keep up. 

Before a few minutes have passed, they’ve shooed him back to his own bed and several nurses and doctors surround her. Only fifteen minutes after she woke him, Natasha and her parents appear in the doorway. Her parents are dressed but by the look of her sweat pants and shirt that’s buttoned up crooked, it looks like Natasha just pulled on whatever was closest.   
“Maman!” Nadia cries and Delphine all but mows down the nurses between her and her daughter before they collapse into an embrace.   
Before Joseph moves to join them, he grasps Natasha’s hand, thanks her and kisses her cheek.   
Clint acts as if he can’t see the blush she quickly hides with the curtain of her hair. 

That afternoon, Natasha told her what happened.  
“He was using you as a shield but I knew that he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt you so-” Natasha takes a deep breath before continuing. “So I shot him.” She says looking down at her hands. “And he shot you.” Her voice cracks on the last words and before she can say anything else, this skinny little kid has pulled herself up and thrown her arms around Natasha’s neck.   
“It is okay.” The girl says quietly in French. “I forgive you.” Clint can’t tell for sure but he thinks he sees a tear fall down her cheek before Natasha lets her forehead fall to Nadia’s shoulder. Clint watches as a nine year old girl consoles the infamous Black Widow and wonders if she’s ever let anyone else hold her like that before and whisper kind things to her. He wonders if she’d let him. A second later, he immediately wishes he never has to.

Nine days after she was shot, the president of the United States sent Nadia a get well card. 

It sits next to the ones sent by dozens of others, the white cardstock with the presidential seal on the front solemn and bland beside the colorful cartoon character filled and hand drawn cards.   
“This one is from my friend, Daniela.” Nadia says, passing it to Natasha. “We didn’t know each other before… well you know. Our beds were next to each other. Her arm is doing much better. She let me draw a flower on her cast. Did you know Agent Sitwell knows how to draw a pony?”   
Natasha passes the card to Clint and he examines it, smiling before setting it back with the others.  
“This one is from my aunt and cousins and this one is from my friends at school, and this one is from that news reporter that interviewed my parents, and this one is from your president.” 

Clint does a double take.   
Natasha flips it open to see the simple typed message ‘Wishing you a speedy recovery’ and the signature below. He wonders if it’s his genuine signature or one done by a machine.  
“And this one is from Monsieur Fury.” Clint nearly falls out of his chair. The card is a simple blank one from the commissary featuring orange tabby kittens in a basket on the front. Inside is a long paragraph written in Nick Fury’s handwriting, but in French. “He said he does not know French very well and asked someone else to help him write it. I like him. He is very nice.”  
“Yes. Yes, he is.” Natasha agrees, quietly, placing the card back with the others. 

They are all quiet for a few moments, Nadia finally having run out of things to show them.   
“Did you know Natasha is not from America?” Clint asks her, leaning back in his comfortable chair.   
Nadia looks to her confused. “Where are you from?”  
“I am from Russia.” Nadia’s eyes light up.   
“Does it snow there all the time? Is it nice there? Have you ever been ice skating?”  
Natasha laughs aloud. “Not all the time, yes it is nice, and yes I have been ice skating. It is very much like dancing.”

Nadia bows her head embarrassed. “I like to dance but a boy that lives near me told me I dance like a chicken.”   
“Well he is foolish then.” Natasha says sternly. “The whole point of dancing is to not care what other people think. You were not dancing for him were you?”  
Nadia shakes her head.   
“Who were you dancing for?”  
Nadia thinks for a moment before answering. “Me?”

“That is right. Never be ashamed of dancing, Nadia. I like to dance also.”  
Clint lets his eyes fall closed and yawns as they converse in French so rapid that it just becomes white noise in his ears.   
_What if?_ He wonders. _What if she had never become the Black Widow? Would she have grown up to be a ballerina? Would she have married a nice man and started a family?_ He shakes the thought away, trying to ignore the ache in his chest. 

The next day, they fly Nadia to a hospital in Cameroon. Natasha hugs both her and her parents right there on the Helicarrier’s runway in front of everyone. A few agents let their shock show and receive a fierce glare in return. Fury and Clint ignore it. Maria smiles at her widely. As soon as their chopper takes off, Fury turns to Clint.   
“I want you off this boat as soon as possible, Hawkeye.”   
“Awww, but _dad_.” Clint whines. 

“I swear to god, Barton, I’ve had it up to here with you.” He turns to Natasha. “He’s been bargaining with everyone in Medical to try and lower his leave time. I want both of you off my Helicarrier within the next hour.” He turns to Maria. “Hill, you have permission to throw Barton into the ocean if he’s still here after that. Scratch that. You are _strongly encouraged_ to throw him in the ocean.” he spared Natasha a glance as he turns to leave. “But let me know if you plan to toss her too. I missed the last fight." One corner of his mouth lifts in a small grin. "I’ve got my video camera charging.” 

Left alone, Clint turns to Natasha. “So uh, I know you mentioned the Smithsonian and that you don’t exactly have a place to stay yet, so uh. You’re welcome to stay with me. At my place. My apartment. I have a couch.” Natasha laughs loudly.   
“Do you always find it so difficult to invite a girl home with you?”   
“What? No! I mean, yes. I mean-” he groans. “I’m gonna stop talking now, okay?” he asks covering his face with his free hand.   
“That’s probably a good idea. So what are you planning for dinner?”

“Dinner? You mean out? I wasn’t really- I didn’t think this was-”  
“It’s _not_ , Barton.” She says sternly as they walk back inside. “I’m hungry. And if I’ll be at your place for a few days, it’d be cheaper to pick up some things for a few meals.” She looks him up and down, an eyebrow raised. “I can’t imagine you have much in your apartment’s refrigerator besides ketchup and sour milk.”   
“There’s… more… than just that. I should, um, have some fruit loops too.”   
“Right. I’ll get my things and meet you back here in a few minutes? Coulson should be able to drop us off on his way back to the Triskelion.” 

They catch a cab from outside the Triskelion and Natasha sits back to watch the view. He gives the driver directions and Natasha only raises an eyebrow when he asks the guy to stop by Home Depot and comes out a few moments later with two empty plastic gas cans, a small can of wood stain and a small plastic bag.   
He’s tempted to keep her guessing but eventually explains what they’re for. “These” he says, holding up the gas cans “are so that we don’t have to keep calling cabs while we’re here- no offence, man.”   
“None taken, bro.” the driver says.  
“And the other stuff is for my landlady.” He rubs his neck, a little embarrassed. “I, uh, promised to refinish her kitchen cabinets a few months ago.” 

She stares at him for a long moment. “Is there anything you can’t do?”  
He laughs loudly, remembering asking her that during the shit-fest that was the Texas 084 op. “Can’t sing as well as you darlin’.”   
“Where to now?” the driver asks.   
“Oh okay, stop over there for a second, I need to get some gas.” Clint says, seeing a gas station at the end of the road. He hops out and begins filling the gas containers. 

“So how long you two known each other?” The driver asks, meeting Natasha’s eyes in the rearview mirror.   
Outside the car, Clint chokes on the gum he’d been chewing. She smiles at him through the open window and Clint’s stomach is suddenly full of butterflies again. _God she’s so damn gorgeous_ , he thinks.   
“A few months now.” Natasha answers the driver. _Wait what?_ “We met in Russia. He asked me to come home with him and we ate pizza and talked for hours.” He narrows his eyes at her. _What is she doing? There’s no way she’s stupid enough to tell him we’re not civilians._

“Sounds romantic. Wish my girl was that appreciative of pizza and a conversation.”   
“Mmm. The little things are important.”   
“That’s what I always try to tell her, you know? I get home and I just wanna talk with her and tell her about my day- not hear her complain about my boy’s messy room and how he procrastinates on his math homework.”   
“It’s important to have time to yourselves.” Natasha says, smiling as Clint makes the gas canister overflow. “That’s what we’re doing, right, dear?” she says. “Getting away from the stress of work and… family.”   
“Yeah that’s a smart thing.” The driver says nodding. “Keep the love fresh.” 

Clint’s ears go red and he bites his lip hard. _What in the hell is she doing?_ It takes more restraint than he’s used to exerting to keep himself from glaring at her as he heads into the gas station bathroom. He scrubs his face after washing his hands in the freezing water at the tiny sink. _Why is she doing this? What is she playing at?_ And then it hits him like a punch to the gut. _She **is** playing. It’s just a game to her._  
When he walks back to the cab he can hear the driver laughing as she animatedly tells a story. “So we’re hot and sweating like pigs and exhausted and miles away from the village and he leans against this tree and the next thing I know he’s bent over double and cussing at the top of his lungs and behind him was this horrible ugly snake hanging from a tree branch. I didn’t even think- I just hit it as hard as I could with the big knife the tour guide gave us. And then I helped him back to camp.” 

“God damn. That’s so fucking badass.” The driver leans out the window to look at Clint as he wipes off the gas canisters with paper towels. “This is one awesome woman. You better hold on to her, bro.”   
“You’re telling me.” Clint mumbles under his breath as he puts the gas cans into the trunk and then climbs in the back seat beside Natasha. He gives the driver another address before putting his arm around her shoulders and leaning in close to her ear. _“What in the hell are you doing?”_  
“I figured a cover was a good idea.” She whispers, leaning closer and smiling for the driver’s sake. “It was the first thing that came to mind.” 

“That we’re fucking _sweethearts_ is the first thing that came to your mind?” His heart stutters when he feels her warm breath ghost over his neck.   
“And what would you have gone with?” she asks. “That we’re family? Siblings?”  
“Yes. No. Maybe-” she leans back and tilts her head giving him a look he’s quickly beginning to recognize as her ‘I find your word vomit amusing’ look. “I don’t know- shut up.” he says, trying to ignore how warm she feels pressed up against him.   
“Why, Agent Barton, do you think we don’t have _chemistry_?” she asks, leaning in again and brushing her lips over his pulse point. Any other man might’ve clenched his hands in reaction but a sniper couldn’t afford to react to stress like that. 

“This the place, bro?” the driver asks before Clint can react to her.   
“Yeah, man, thanks.” He says, glad to be able to escape the backseat his partner occupied. He pays the man through his window, being sure to include a large tip before grabbing the gas cans from the trunk. He slams the trunk and waves to the driver before he spots Natasha standing on the sidewalk, her head tilted like a confused puppy. He imagines a cocker spaniel sporting her widow emblem as a collar and quickly coughs to cover up his laughter.   
“Why are we at a storage facility?” she asks.   
“Because I left something priceless here.” He says, approaching the gate house. 

“Hey stranger! It’s been forever! Where were you this time?” The woman in the booth calls, waving to him.   
He smiles and walks up, pulling out his wallet and a key ring. “Man it has been, huh? It was Afghanistan this time.” Her eyes widen when they fall on his arm. “Oh this is nothing. I took a landing a little too rough, I’ll be fine. Thought my boss was gonna tear my ass a new one though. Turns out getting a fender bender in a 30 million dollar aircraft really pisses your S.O. off.” She smiles at him and takes his offered card.   
Although Natasha doesn’t react, he feels sure she saw that the name on his ID wasn’t his. “Well, stay safe next time you fly, Mr. Heck. And you’re paid up until February, just so you know.” 

As they walk through the open gate, Natasha glances at him with a raised eyebrow. He waits until they’re out of hearing distance before saying anything. “What? She thinks I’m Airman Mark Heck. You’re not the only one who can use a fake name, you know.” She shrugs. “Besides, I _was_ in Afghanistan. Only that was a few months before I started chasing you so… y’know- it’s been a while.”   
After a few minutes of walking, they approach unit 057 and Clint unlocks it, pushing the gate up and flicking the light on.   
He watches her face as she looks over the contents of the room. Along one wall is a long row of cardboard boxes and opposite it several black luggage bags, backpacks, and duffle bags. In the center of the unit sits a canary yellow car.   
“ _This_ is something priceless?” she asks and he’s a little offended at the tone. 

“ _This_ is a 1975 Ford Consul, I’ll have you know. I call her Ellie.” He says running his hand over the roof of the car and wiping the dust off onto his jeans. “She’s the first car I ever owned. I fixed her up myself.” He says popping the gas tank cover open and emptying the gas cans inside.   
She casually strolls in, bending down to peek inside the car. “I’ve never owned a vehicle before.” She says quietly.   
“I could help you get one.” He says without thinking. “I mean- SHIELD. SHIELD could help you get one. The people in accounts payable are freaking miracle workers. And uh-” he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s not like I don’t have a lot riding on you as it is. Helping you get a loan wouldn’t really add to the pile at this point.” She stares at him for a long moment as if she’s trying to tell if he’s lying. _Hell she probably is_ , he thinks. 

“If you did get a set of wheels, any idea what kind you’d want?” he asks, wiping the driver’s side mirror off with the hem of his t-shirt.   
She peeks into one of the cardboard boxes before answering. “I’ve always wanted to ride a motorcycle.”  
“You’ve never ridden a motorcycle?” he asks, surprised. She shakes her head. “But I thought that was kind of, you know, a thing that you- well that badasses with code names do.” Her eyebrow rises again. “You know. Kick ass, take names, and drive off into the sunset on a crotch rocket.” He wonders if her eyebrow can get high enough to touch her hairline and cracks a smile. “God I need to show you some movies, woman.” He says, tossing the duffel bag furthest from the entrance in the back seat and getting in. 

He leans across and opens her door for her before starting the car. The engine sputters for a second before turning over. When he pulls out of the unit and gets out to close the storage unit door, he spots her watching his ass. He tries to ignore it as he gets back in the car.   
She’s quiet for the rest of the ride and gets out with him when they park in the supermarket lot. Standing in the fruit section, she picks up a container of strawberries. “Do you like strawberries?” she asks.   
He nods, leaning over the cart. “Only fruit I don’t like is peaches. I refuse to eat anything that still has fur on it.” she laughs and places them in the cart. Nearly an hour later, they head back to Ellie, carrying several bags of groceries between them. 

In the lobby of his apartment building, he sets down his bags and is unlocking the door when the door across the hall slams open and a dark skinned elderly woman rushes out and wraps Clint in a bear hug. “Clinton! Lord, boy I thought you’d never come back!” he shakes his head subtly when he sees Natasha fall into fighting stance. She relaxes instantly.   
“Can’t- breathe-“ he sputters, hugging the woman back. “You’re crushing me Mrs. Freda.”   
“Oh! Sorry, honey” she says laughing and pulling him back, holding him by each shoulder. “Where’d they send you this time?”  
“Afghanistan.” 

Her eyes fall to his shoulder and she releases him as if burned. “OH MY GOD. Were you _shot_?”  
“Snake bite, actually.” Natasha supplies dryly.   
“Oh, lord I hate those creatures. Stepped on one as a little girl- worst moment of my _life_.” she says, shuddering before turning to Natasha. “Oh and who is this?! Clinton,” she says, beaming, “did you find a _girl_ in Afghanistan?”   
Natasha goes a little pink around the ears and seeing the Black Widow blush is such a novel sight it takes him a second to react. “More like a lot of dirt. Uh, Mrs. Freda, this is-”  
“Natalie.” Natasha says before he can finish. “I’m a friend from out of town.”   
“She actually needs a place to stay for a few days, if that’s fine.” Clint says.   
“Of course, of course!” she says, shaking Natasha’s hand firmly. “I’m Mrs. Freda, Clinton’s landlady. I live across the hall here with my daughter and grandbabies.”

“Oh, hon, you missed a treat last week.” Mrs. Freda continues, turning back to him. “Micah and Destiny had their summer recital and they did so well, I'm so proud of them. I’ll make sure they bring by tickets next time you’re in town, alright?”   
“Yeah, that sounds good.” Clint says, finally having unlocked the door and picking up the things he’d set down. Mrs. Freda spots the can of wood stain and smiles brightly.   
“I worried you’d forget your promise.” She says, smiling brightly.   
“I never forget a promise.” Clint says, smiling.  
“Well I suppose it’ll still have to wait a while what with your arm-” she starts.   
“I could help.” Natasha says, looking up at him. 

_What?_ He thinks. _Did the Black Widow just offer to help me build cabinets for my elderly neighbor?_ “Uh, yeah.” He says lamely. “That could work. We could do that. We’ll be by in a few days, okay?”  
“Sure thing, honey.” She says retreating to her own apartment. “Just knock if you need anything. Oh and remember to knock loud anytime after school but before dinner- you know how the kids get when practicing for band. Nice meeting you Natalie!” she calls over her shoulder waving.   
Natasha nods at her, smiling. When she turns back to him she’s smirking in a way that makes him think she’s laughing at him on the inside.

“What?” he asks, dropping his bags in the center of his living room.   
“Clinton?”  
“Shut up. It’s practically the only thing she calls me other than honey.” He watches as she looks around his apartment. The wall facing the door is dominated by an old TV on an even older dresser filled with DVDs and across the room sits a hand me down gray couch. Against the wall between the two sits an overstuffed purple armchair he got for $20 from a thrift store and a black bean bag. 

He carries the perishables in to the kitchen and starts filling the fridge as she explores the rest of the apartment. She smiles when she spots the electronic dart board and runs a hand over the books on his bookshelf.  
“ _Casino Royale?_ Really? Isn’t that a little close to home for you?” she asks, laughing.   
“I have an enduring respect for the classics.” He says placing the eggs in the fridge. She walks up behind him and peers over the door into his fridge.   
“No ketchup and nothing foul. I’m impressed.” She says.   
“Damn right, you should be.” He says. “Ketchup’s in the cabinet over the stove.” 

They work together to put the rest of the groceries away and when they’re finished he pulls a beer from the fridge and offers her one. “You drink beer?” he asks.   
“I prefer vodka, but beer is fine.” She says.   
“Way to live by the stereotype, Romanoff.” She shrugs smiling as he yanks the caps off their bottles with the hem of his t-shirt. “Spaghetti for dinner?” she nods and pulls down the sauce from where he’d put it as he fills a pot with water. 

“So while we’re waiting on dinner- you ever played Never Have I Ever?”  
She tilts her head again in confusion. _Christ she’s like a confused little puppy_ , he thinks. _An adorable puppy that could break your neck and rip your heart out with the same move_ , he reminds himself, biting back his urge to laugh.  
“It’s a drinking game.” He says. “You say something you think I might’ve done and if I have I have to drink. Same with you- if you say something you’ve done, you have to drink too.” She nods. “And nothing super obvious like ‘never have I ever shot a bow’ or ‘never have I ever danced ballet’. The point is to share new stories.”  
She’s quiet for a long moment before she shrugs and sags against the counter behind her. “Okay. You start.” 

“Never have I ever been to a zoo.” He says. She doesn’t drink.   
“There’s one right here in D.C.? You’ve never been?”  
He shrugs. “When you’ve woken up with a lion in your bed, seeing one in a cage at the zoo kind of loses the appeal.” Her eyes widen in surprise. “Circus lion.” He explains. “Ludo was a cuddler.”  
“Ludo?” she repeats, confused.   
“Labyrinth?” he says, before shaking his head. “Never mind. It’s a movie.”   
She nods, thinking. 

“Never have I ever been skydiving.” She says, smiling. He sets his beer on the counter. “I thought SHIELD frequently dropped agents in that way?” she asks.   
“Not me, thank Christ.” He says shuddering. “I’d rather drive a golf cart clear across Latveria than do a sky drop.”   
She laughs. “You’re afraid of heights!”  
“No, I uh- I have a healthy respect for them, is all.” He says before grinning at her. “Never have I ever fought a ninja.” 

When she takes a drink he’s very glad he didn’t because it definitely would have resulted in an epic spit take. “You’re fucking with me.” She shakes her head. “With a black outfit and nunchucks?”  
“More of a dark gray. And they had katanas.”   
“They?” he asks, his voice a little high.   
“There were six of them.” she says, wearing a shark grin. “They were very good with the swords. I was better.”   
“You’re not actually saying you fought six ninjas in a sword fight, are you?  
“Oh no.” she says. “I shot one of them as soon as I entered the room. When one of them disarmed me, I picked up the dead one’s katana and fought _five_ ninjas in a sword fight.” He stares at her for a long moment.

“Never have I ever smoked a cigar.” She says, stirring the boiling pasta.   
He takes a long swig. “Next time shit hits the fan and you’re not avoiding everyone, go to Fury’s office. He shares if he’s caught with one. He’s got a friend in the Dominican Republic that sends him a box every now and then.”   
“One of Red Room’s agents had a fondness for cigars.” She says coolly, in that detached clinical voice she uses when talking about her past. “He liked to poke them onto the soles of the feet of agents who disappointed him.”   
“That’s fucked up.” he says, quietly.   
She shrugs. “That’s Red Room.” 

“Never have I ever been in love.” He says before taking a drink. He poorly disguises his shock when she drinks too.   
“Who was she?” Natasha asks, letting her head fall back to stare at the ceiling.   
“Her name was Bobbi.” He says, smiling. “She kicked my ass the first time she met me. Almost crushed my damn voice box with these steel batons she fights with. She was crazy smart and never put up with any of my shit. We had a good thing for a while. She worked for SHIELD but left a few years ago and we broke it off. What about you?” he asks, taking another drink.   
Her smile turns bitter quickly and she looks at her feet. “I… I don’t actually remember his name.” she says, picking at the label on her beer bottle. “He was at Red Room with me. He was the SSR’s best sniper. We worked together and he trained me. They always told us that love was for children…” she shrugs. “I guess we were being childish... They suspected we were together even though we’d hid it well. One day he went to give his report and then I never saw him again.” She takes a long drink of beer and he looks away when he sees tears in her eyes. “He’s the only thing I miss about that cesspool.” 

“Never have I ever been drunk.” She says, shaking her head as he dumps a jar of pasta sauce into the pan sitting on the stove. She expects him to drink and raises an eyebrow when he doesn’t.  
He shrugs. “Daddy was a mean drunk.” Her eyes flick down to his beer. “Please, Romanoff. I weigh over two hundred pounds. I’d have to drink an entire six pack to get sloshed. Besides,” he says, taking another drink, “it’s the hard stuff that makes me mean.” He winks at her. “Beer just makes me stupid and flirty. So what about you? Never ordered a martini, shaken not stirred?”  
She smiles faintly and rolls her shoulders. “It’s not that I don’t drink. I just don’t drink enough to impair me. I’ve wanted to though.” She says quietly.

“Oh?” he asks.  
“The day after I first realized how much they’d played in my head.” She takes a long drink, finishing her beer. “I was on a mission in Bremen when I took a blow to the head. When I woke up I was tied to a chair and had totally different memories than before.” She pulls two more beers from the fridge and passes him one. “I knew they had the power to do it, hell, I knew they’d done it to me before but I’d never realized how _much_ of me they took before that moment.” She taps the cap of her bottle against the counter to pop the cap off before tossing it in the trash. “So I beat the Hell out of the men holding me and I took off. Tried to drink myself half to death at the nearest pub I could find.” She snorts. “I had more shots than I can remember and still wasn’t really drunk.” She shrugs. "Another gift from Red Room, I suppose. After a few hours I stumbled out and started running.” She looks up at him, her lips curved into a tiny grin. “And then you found me.”

“Never have I ever jumped through a glass window.” He says, smirking when she takes a drink. “Is it easy? I’ve always wanted to do that.”  
She shrugs. “It takes more force than you’d expect but it’s possible. Never have I ever used a jetpack.” She says, stirring the pasta sauce.   
He takes a drink, smiling at her around his bottle. “It was freakin’ awesome.”   
“I thought you didn’t like heights, Hawkeye.”  
“I don’t like _free-fall_.” He corrects primly, holding up a finger. “Besides, it’s hard to ignore the adrenaline rush you get when you’ve got twenty five pounds of fuel strapped to your back and flames right next to your ass.” He laughs. “Thing went fast as hell too. Man I should ask if we’ve got any more of those things, they were fun.” She laughs and grabs the strainer from above his fridge. He doesn’t bother to ask how she knew where it was. 

“Never have I ever fought on top of a moving train.” He says adding spices to the sauce as she strains the pasta.   
She laughs loudly, arching her eyebrow. “You have an unrealistic perception of what my career was like before I met you, Barton.” When she glances up at him, surrounded by steam from the hot pasta, wearing a tiny grin he has to stuff his hands in his pockets to keep from grabbing her and kissing her. _Christ, she’d probably kill me_ , he thinks. Unbidden, he suddenly remembers the way she’d looked at him as they lay next to each other the night he’d nearly killed her. _Or kiss me back-_

“Never have I ever ridden a horse.” She says, interrupting his train of thought.   
“Circus used to have an Arabian named Sonny.” He says before taking a drink. “She was getting up in age before we got there but she could gallop and do a few jumps. I’d shoot from her back during the show.”   
“I would’ve liked to see that.” She says smiling. “Did you wear a bright costume too?”  
He blushes a bit and turns the heat under the pasta sauce down. “Uh. Yeah.” He says laughing. “It was bright purple and blue. Had a big ‘H’ on my forehead.”   
“I really would’ve _really_ liked to see that.” She says, passing him one of his own bowls.   
He laughs. “No you really wouldn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what I imagine Clint’s car looks like: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ford_Consul#mediaviewer/File:Ford_Consul_GT_2.3_V6_yellow_r.jpg


	13. New Mexico's Summer and Russia's Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Nat hang out a little more and she has another PTSD fueled episode, this time in a dream and involving a different face with a name she can't quite recall.

… Natasha PoV…

Their dinner is quiet and comfortable and they watch his dvd of _Labyrinth_ while eating.  
“So. Thoughts?” he asks.  
“It was… interesting.” She says slowly and he laughs.  
“Yeah it’s weird but it’s cool.” He shrugs. “Me and my brother Barney snuck out to watch it in theaters as teenagers.” He smiles and shrugs.  
“The two of you split up, you said.” She says, setting her empty bowl on his coffee table and leaning closer. “What happened?”  
He slouches against the couch. “I was trained by a guy named Swordman.” She arches her eyebrow and he laughs. “Yeah, I’m crazy talented like that. Anyway, I’d trained with him for a few years when I found out he was stealing from the circus. He asked me to help him and offered me half the cash. When I refused he beat the hell out of me. He would’ve killed me if another performer hadn’t stepped in and saved my ass.” 

He clasps his hands behind his head and stares up at the ceiling. “Barney said I should’ve taken the money. Shouldn’t have ratted on the guy who took us in. Few years after that, Barney left for the army. Asked me to go with him.” Clint shrugs. “I told him no. Wanted to get my life in order first. I changed my mind the next morning but by the time I got to the bus stop, he was already gone.” He looks over at her and her heart aches for him. “Haven’t seen him since.”  
“I’m sorry, Clint.”  
He shrugs. “Nothin’ you did, Nat.” he groans loudly, getting to his feet and stretching. “Anyway, it’s getting late and I guess a week in the med bay made me flabby and pathetic because I’m exhausted. Smithsonian in the morning?”

“Yeah.” She says, flattening out the pillow on her lap, suddenly fidgety.  
“Well. G’night Nat.”  
“Good night, Clint.”  
She slips into the bathroom to change into a tank top and baggy workout shorts. He putters around his small apartment for a few quiet minutes, setting their dishes in the sink, checking the window and door locks, and brushing his teeth at the bathroom sink. She looks away quickly when she realizes she’d been watching his muscled back through his thin t-shirt. She shakes her head and lies back on the couch, pulling the knit blanket over her. 

_What am I doing?_ She thinks. _I am the Black Widow of Red Room. I was not made to sleep under knit purple blankets and visit museums._ The thought comes to her unbidden and makes her heart race and her hands go still. _What was I made for? Was I made for murder? Government sanctioned assassinations? Is that all that I am? A well dressed weapon? A blade, small and decorated and shined like a mirror but a weapon all the same?_

 _No._ she thinks, clenching her fist. _I am more than that. I saved a child. I saved 138 children._ Her eyes fall to Barton’s bedroom door, cracked open an inch or so. I saved my partner. _I saved my… my friend._ Her eyes well up suddenly and she rubs at them angrily. _I haven’t had a friend since… what does it matter? Red Room took him from me. For all I know, he’s probably dead._ She’s thinking of his brown eyes and cold hands when she falls asleep. 

She dreams of the first time she saw Clint, deep circles under his eyes and his nose bloodied by the heel of her hand. She dreams of sparing with him, fast and hard and mercilessly. He punches first and she blocks with her forearms. He ducks her spinning kick just like she taught him and grunts when he delivers a hard blow to her side. She lands on the mat hard and when she shakes her hair out of her face, his blue eyes have turned brown and his short blonde hair is long and dark and shaggy. She gets up and continues fighting, the memories of her new and old partners bleeding into one another. She twists into a low spin, aiming a kick at his gut. 

“You’ve disappointed me, Natalia.” He says, catching her foot in his left hand. His gloved fingers on her bare foot feel like stepping into melting snow and it makes her shiver. The look in his eyes is a sick mix of pity and feral anger. “You’ve killed so many.” His head tilts as he watches her wretch herself from his grip. “You’ve killed innocents, Natalia. And now I will make you pay.” He lunges at her.  
“No!” she cries, her throat raw. “I help people now! I save them!”  
“You _kill_ , Widow.” His left fist to her face feels like kissing a moving train. “You kill for them just like you killed for us.” His right hand grabs a fistful of her hair as he delivers another blow to her belly. “You think sparing a few children will wash their blood from your hands?”

His kick lands on her collarbone and she feels it crack before she hits the mat. “You’ve killed _hundreds_ , Natalia. _Thousands._ Do you honestly think you could ever even that balance?” he kneels above her, one foot planted on her chest, his knee on the ground beside her. “You are nothing but a weapon, Natalia.” His hands gently caress her jaw before he wraps them around her neck. “ _Our_ weapon and soon enough, you will slit the throat of every new friend you’ve made.” Her eyes go wide and she kicks, trying to throw him off her. He leans closer, grinning like a shark that smells blood in the water. “And when their blood sprays on your skin, you’ll _love_ it, you’ll _relish_ in the warmth of it-” 

“No!” she roars. With a burst of strength she launches herself at him, her hands going around his throat, riding him to the floor. His hands shove at her, weaker and warmer than she remembers.  
“Natasha, stop-” he breathes.  
“No, you stop!” she growls, digging her thumbs into the hollow of his throat.  
“I’m not flinching from you, Tasha.” He rasps in Russian.  
When she blinks blonde hair replaces dark and blue eyes brown. She skitters backwards off of him, breathing hard, and she can see the angry pink marks her nails left on his skin. 

“I am sorry.” She breathes in Russian, before switching to English “I’m sorry, Clint. I’m so sorry.”  
With that, she rushes to his bathroom and barely reaches the toilet before she collapses around it to heave up her dinner. When his hand lands on her back, she sucks in a fast, foul tasting breath and smacks his hand away.  
“Shhh, its fine, Nat. It’s me.” he says, rubbing her back gently. She considers chasing him away but just the thought exhausts her. She doesn’t bother to shoo him away again. “It was just a dream. You didn’t hurt me. Hell, you’ve done worse to me on the sparing mat.”  
With his words come fresh memories of her dream and with a whine she drops her forehead to rest on the toilet seat. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks, brushing her hair out of her face.  
“I thought you were my old partner. The one I can’t remember. He-” she chokes as more bile rises up her throat. Clint sits on the tub beside her and holds her hair back, gently massaging her shoulder. “He was punishing me.”  
“You haven’t done anything wrong, Natasha.”  
She looks up to glare at him but the bright light above his head makes her wince and look away. “Yeah, Clint, I kindda have.”  
“Ten days ago you saved the lives of over a hundred children.”  
She speaks without looking up from the toilet bowl. “Ten months ago I killed even more.”

His hand stills on her back and he pulls her into a hug. She tenses so tightly that her knee starts to cramp. His hand smooths her hair down and when he kisses the crown of her head, she has to fight the desire to sob into his wrinkled _Indiana Jones_ t-shirt. “They made you into what you were, Natasha. You’re changing now. You’re getting better. You’re helping people.”  
“It will never be enough. I’ll never repay the debts that I owe.”  
“You don’t need to-” He pulls back, holding her face in his hands “Jesus, what is this- repay your debt to _society_? The world doesn’t freaking _work_ like that.”  
“Maybe it should!” she snaps, burying her face in her hands. One of her elbows resting on her own knee trembles and she consciously slows her breathing to calm down. 

When she speaks again, she still hasn’t lifted her face from her hands but her trembling has stopped and her voice is more even. “Clint.” She sighs. “I don’t know what you want from me but-”  
“I don’t-”  
“But I need you to know that I’m not a healthy person.” When she looks up to him, her eyes are red and watery and the look on his face makes her want to run and hide. “I can be a friend to you, but you have to know that I-” she takes a deep breath before speaking the most truthful thing she’s said in weeks. “I really have no idea what I’m doing here.” She says with a sad smile. He reaches a hand out to her and she flinches away. He withdrawals his hand as quickly as he wipes the look of disappointment from his face. 

“I’m not him you know. Your old partner.” He says quietly. “You don’t deserve what you’re putting yourself through.” _No_ , she thinks. _You’re not him. You didn’t leave me when you were told to. You are the warmth of New Mexico at noon and he was Russia’s winter. You are jokes and drinking games and juggling to make a little girl with a hole in her skull laugh._  
“I know.” She says, looking up at him and cracking a thin, watery smile. “You’re just a stupid kid from Iowa that ran away to join the circus…. And I’m a girl that wanted to be a ballerina and grew up to be a murderer.”  
“You’re not a-”  
“Yes, Clint.” She says softly, staring down at her lap. “Yes, I am.” 

He gently touches her knee with his fingertips and she looks up. “I’m not gonna leave you.” She looks away and knows just how easily he can see what she’s feeling. It makes her feel raw and vulnerable. She remembers Ivan saying the same thing to her so many years ago- before she’d learned better. _Everyone leaves_ , she thinks. _Sooner or later, everyone leaves._ “I’m always going to have your back.” He says, smiling at her gently. “I’ve saved your life quite a few times now, I’m not afraid to do it again.”  
“Why?” she breathes, her voice scratchy. “Why even save me in the first place?”  
“Because you needed it. The second I saw you I knew you were running.” His words hit her like a blow to the chest. _I was alone and cowering like a wounded animal waiting for the hunters to find me. He was a hunter and I was prey and he didn’t kill me._ They stare at one another for a long moment. “And sometimes I need someone too.” He says quietly.  
“I-” she hesitates.

He smiles gently. “I’m not asking for a blood oath, Romanoff. I just need someone to laugh at my jokes and to play poker with. And someone who’ll save me from poisonous reptiles occasionally.”  
“I can do that.” she says.  
He smiles at her gently before squeezing her hand. “You want some mouthwash?” he asks gently. She nods and he gets up to grab it for her. After she’s rinsed the foul taste from her mouth, she turns to see him holding a glass of water and a package of crackers. He shrugs, setting them on the coffee table. “Figured you might want something in your stomach.” 

“Thank you.” She says, tearing open the crackers and eating a few.  
“Do you uh- I mean I can-” Clint rubs his neck awkwardly and lets his head fall back before trying again. “I’m not all that tired at the moment.” He says, taking a small step closer as if approaching a skittish fawn. _He should know that I’m not. I only wear its hide. I’m a wolf underneath._ “We could watch some Leno if you want.”  
She nods and curls up in one corner of the couch, pulling his knitted blanket over her bare knees.

About an hour later a noise jerks her heavy eyelids open. She snorts a quiet laugh when she realizes the sound was Clint’s snores from the other end of the couch. The TV quietly drones on before them, its light filling the room with shifting elongated shadows. His head has dropped back against the couch and his Adam’s apple moves with every breath.  
She settles back into the couch, slowing her breathing to match his. She falls asleep staring at his face and trying to ignore the faint bruising on his neck.


	14. Field Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nat & Clint briefly talk about last night's PTSD episode and visit the Smithsonian American History Museum.

… Clint PoV… 

He wakes to the smell of coffee and a cramp in his neck. He blinks his eyes open, half expecting to see Phil or Bobbi at his ancient dining room table in the corner. Instead, he sees a pair of knees at his eye level. Between his coffee table and TV, the Black Widow is balancing on her hands, her bare feet pointed straight up. Her eyes are closed and with each slow breath she takes, the tip of her ponytail brushes the carpet. Her baggy shorts show off more of her legs than normal and her tank top has ridden up enough for him to see a peek of her tight belly. He wonders how long she’s been there, holding perfect form, not a muscle out of place. From the sweat beading her chest, she’s been at it for a while. 

“I was wondering how long you’d sleep.” She says quietly but he still sucks in a surprised breath, quickly looking away and around, as if he hadn’t just been staring at her chest. When he looks back at her she’s smiling at him.  
“How long you been up?” he asks stretching and yawning loudly.  
“A few hours. I made coffee.”  
“You’re wonderful.” He sighs, dragging himself off the couch and out to the kitchen. 

He tries not to stare at her while stirring sugar into his coffee and fails miserably when she eases herself right-side up one taunt leg at a time. He spills coffee down his shirt when she turns to him, catching him red-handed. Her lips press together tightly and she lowers her eyes. “I’m sorry.”  
“Wha?” he asks, dumbfounded. “No, I was the jackass who was creepin’ on you-”  
“What?” she asks, her brows lowered in confusion. Half a second later, her face cracks and she laughs loudly. 

_“That’s_ what you were staring at me for?” she asks, reaching around him to pull a mug out of his cabinet.  
“Yeah, no, I just-” he rubs his face awkwardly and takes a step back. “I mean -” he sighs deeply. “Just not every day I have a gymnast doing stretches in my living room, you know?”  
She doesn’t look up from her coffee as she stirs in sugar and cream in slowly. “I’m sorry about last night.” She says quietly.

He wipes the coffee off his hands using his shorts and moves to stand beside her. “It’s okay.” When she sighs deeply he puts a hand on her shoulder. “Hey.” She doesn’t shrug him off- doesn’t react at all. It’s like she’s holding herself taunt, like she’s afraid to move- _afraid to hurt me_ , he realizes. 

His chest clenches and he remembers Barney trying to teach him to fight. They’d been kids still, but that didn’t keep Dad from smacking them around and Barney wanted to teach Clint to hit back instead of cowering and hiding. It wasn’t till years later that Clint realized that the reason he’d been so bad at punching his brother was because he was afraid. Afraid of hurting his brother. Afraid of becoming their father. 

He moves his hand before he has the time to second guess himself. He touches her chin lightly and she jumps. “Nat, look at me.” When he turns her face to look at him, her tear-filled eyes search his face. “You didn’t mean to hurt me did you?”  
She shakes her head rapidly.  
“Then don’t worry about it.”

“But what if it happens again, Clint?” her voice cracks on his name and he wraps her in a hug. She gasps and doesn’t seem to know what to do with her hands for a second before she throws them around him, her hands grabbing the back of his t-shirt, pressing her face tight against his chest.  
“Shhhh.” He hesitates before rubbing his hand over her hair and he kisses the top of her head without thinking. “We’ll work on it. Whatever you need. We’ll use your grounding techniques.” She tenses up and pulls away. 

“My what?”  
His face goes red. “Oh. Uh. When I was still in med bay, Phil came by to visit. He said he saw you in the hallway. He saw you grounding yourself.”  
Suddenly very shy she steps away from him, tucking her hair behind her ear.  
“Hey, it’s okay. He’s not gonna go telling everyone that the one-woman-army Black Widow isn’t always on top of her game.” She turns away from him and he grabs her shoulder to spin her around, knowing very well just how easily she could make him regret it. “Hey, you’ve been through some horrifying shit, Tasha. We all know that. Let us help you.”

She sighs. “I just-” she glances up at him sheepishly. “I don’t like others knowing more about me than I do them.”  
He shrugs. “Then I’ll tell you all Coulson’s dirty nerdy secrets.” He leans down to catch her eye. “Look, I get that trust is hard for you. But I trust Phil more than anyone. And if you can trust me, you can trust him.”  
She stares at him for a long second and he forgets to breathe, waiting for her response. “I- I trust you, Clint.” The relief that floods him is so intense and blinding that he’s already got his hand around the back of her neck and his lips are halfway to hers before he nearly has a heart attack at the shock of what he was about to do. In what he considers a flawlessly casual move, he rests his forehead against hers instead. 

Her lips are pressed tightly in a small smile and her eyes are more open than he’s ever seen them. _God, I want to kiss her_ , he thinks. _Phil was right. I’m in too deep. She’s never gonna-_  
Her eyes fall closed and when she lightly kisses his cheek, his thundering heart skips a couple beats. “Thank you.” And then she’s gone, halfway across the apartment before he can pick his jaw up off the floor. When she disappears into the bathroom, he drops into his fluffy purple chair heavily. _That was a platonic thank you kiss. A Russian slash European thing._ His hand is halfway through dialing Coulson’s cell number to ask if platonic Russian cheek kisses are really a thing when he realizes how high school-ish he’s being. 

He’s still so dazed by his almost kiss and her cheek kiss that when he finally manages to drag himself to his bedroom to change he puts his shirt on inside out. He’s pulling on a hoodie when she comes out of the bathroom, dressed in jeans and a thin, oversized plaid shirt. “You ready to head out?” She nods and reaches for her shoes. Something suddenly occurs to him. “Oh hey, I think they have metal detectors there, you know- so pack the plastic stuff.”  
“I figured as much.” She says, pulling her pants leg up to show the black knife strapped to her calf. 

“Holy shit,” he says, laughing. “I was joking. That’s simultaneously hilarious and a little bit terrifying.” She shrugs, pulling on her sneakers. “What’s it made of?” he asks, suddenly curious “Ceramic? Polycarbonate?”  
“Nylon Fiber.” He arches an eyebrow. “It sounds ridiculous but I’ve sent this knife straight through a wooden door and into the guy behind it before.”  
He snorts a laugh opening the door for her. “Yeah but how much of that was you versus it?”  
She shrugs. “I’d say 70, 30. In my favor of course.”  
“Of course.” 

Instead of driving straight there, they stop at a park and ride metro station. He double checks Ellie’s locks before leaving and ignores Natasha when she rolls her eyes. When they order their tickets he can’t help but find it adorable that she can’t figure out the ticket machine. She’s a badass assassin that can hack anything SHIELD can throw at her in 10 minutes flat and speaks 7 different languages but can’t figure out how to buy metro tickets. The train isn’t very crowded and they lounge on seats across the aisle from one another. They spend most of the ride people watching and guessing strangers’ occupations, hobbies, and talents. 

They decide to visit the Museum of American History first and Clint laughs when she tells him that Coulson recommended it. The first exhibit that really catches their interest is the On the Water exhibit, filled with miniature wooden model ships. When they wander past a glass case containing a model ship with big white sails, she drops to a crouch with a gasp. While the exhibit is mostly empty on an early morning Tuesday, his hand instantly falls to her shoulder thinking about her episode last night. She grabs his hand and jabs her finger against the glass excitedly. “Clint _look_!” she says delightedly. “Did you see the tiny little crow’s nest and the little cannons? And look, there are even tiny little buckets!” 

He stares at her for a second, smiling and completely bewildered. She makes a soft little noise that sounds suspiciously like a giggle. “Clint, there are little tiny people too!” she says pointing again and he can’t help but imagine her as a little girl seeing a doll house for the first time. “The mizzenmast and mainmast are even tied accurately- though there are a few ropes out of place on the foremast.  
He whips his head to look at her. “Okay, now you’re just messing with me. Next you’ll tell me ‘actual fucking pirate’ is listed your resume.”  
She swats at him lightly. “That’s slander! This is the _Santa Maria_ , Clint, the biggest of Columbus’ ships. There were no pirates on it.” 

“You’re like a little kid with this stuff.” He says nudging her lightly.  
She shrugs. “They didn’t exactly have doll houses back home let alone toy ships.”  
She spends the rest of their time in that room pointing out the parts of ships and naming them and telling him about the usual jobs sailors do on board.

“So how do you really know all this stuff?” he asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets to resist the urge to put his arm around her.  
“Not by pirating, if that’s what you’re asking.” She says with a sly smile. “I was spying on a British arms dealer.” She says quietly. “He was a sailing enthusiast and particularly into reenactments.” She smiles. “I spent almost six months on that ship before someone spilled the information I was looking for.” She huffs a laugh. “I think that was the furthest away from Red Room I’d ever been before now. When I showed up again they were surprised to see me. They thought I’d died. Or defected.” 

On the next floor, they spend a few moments looking at the nearly 200 year old tattered American flag from behind glass before wandering over to the Captain America exhibit. She almost reaches out to touch Steve Rogers’ ancient motorcycle before stopping herself. “They still tell ghost stories about his Screaming Commandoes in Red Room.” She says quietly.  
“Howling Commandoes.” He corrects, nodding to the large sepia mural to the side. She moves closer to read the information next to it.  
“They said he and 6 dehydrated and underfed men managed to free over a hundred prisoners of war- right from under the Red Skull’s forces.” She says staring up at the massive mural. “He’s a horror story back home. Here he’s a hero.”

As more guests surround them, Clint guides her to the video area with a hand at her back. Through her shirt he can feel her tense at his touch but she doesn’t pull away. He points to the dark haired woman on the screen as they sit. “That’s Peggy Carter, she-”  
“Founded SHIELD.” Natasha finishes for him, her eyes glued to the screen. “One of the Black Widows encountered her in the 40’s when she was still with the SSR.” He turns to look at her surprised. “Of course, they didn’t call it Red Room at the time.”  
“I’ve never met her, but Fury says she was the best damn agent we’d ever had.” Clint says stretching. “He reads her old files sometimes. Rumor has it that he’s got a hidden briefcase full of reports that no one but the two of them have ever seen.”

After making their way to the top floor and back down again, they head across the street and order from a line of food trucks and sit down to eat.  
“So how’d you like your first ever trip to a museum?” he asks, turning to look at her with one hand raised to keep the sun out of his eyes.  
“You mean my first ever trip to museum that didn’t involve espionage, theft, or murder?” she asks with one brow raised.  
“Well, yeah. That is unless someone in the ladies’ room really pissed you off.”  
She laughs and looks around them. “It was more interesting than I anticipated.”

They quietly sit together, eating hotdogs and sharing a bag of chips for several minutes before she turns to him. “Do you have a pair of handcuffs at your apartment?”  
He chokes. Being asked that while her flannel shirt hangs off one shoulder and her hair is shining in the sunlight and after she just had a hot dog in her mouth makes his brain go to places he’s not too proud of. _“What?”_ he says, coughing uncomfortably, washing his last bite down with a long drink of soda.  
“Zip ties work too but cuffs are more comfortable.”  
“What?” he repeats, dripping relish off his hot dog and onto his lap.  
“So that if I wake up again and-”

What she’s saying becomes suddenly, blindingly, horrifyingly clear. “No, Natasha.” She blinks in surprise at the sternness in his voice. “I’m not gonna-” he looks around and lowers his voice. “I’m not gonna fucking handcuff the girl that just escaped being held captive and used as a weapon by her own government while she sleeps.”  
“But-”  
“No, Nat. Just… no. I’m not gonna do that to you.” He says, standing and stalking over to a sunglass salesmen on the corner, shoveling the rest of his hotdog down before he loses his appetite. 

He’s trying on a pair of purple frameless sunglasses and blowing bubbles with his gum when she approaches him again. He makes a funny face at her in the mirror, hoping she’ll drop it. She barely raises an eyebrow and snags a pair of blue round lensed sunglasses. He snorts a little. “Lennon glasses? Really?”  
She shoots him a confused look before nudging him aside to look in the mirror. “Lenin didn’t wear glasses.” She says arranging her hair.  
“What? Lennon almost always wore glasses, Nat.”  
“I think I would know what the founder of the Soviet Union looks like, Clint.”  
“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Vladimir Lenin.” she says trying on another pair of glasses. “Marxist, founder of the Soviet Union, died in 1924, succeeded by-“  
He barks a laugh. “ _John Lennon_ , Nat. The Beatle.” She looks at him confused “You know? From the Sixties? I wanna hold your HAAAAAAAAND,” he sings. Next to him the sunglass vendor starts humming. “All you need is looove love. Love is all you need.” she blushes and quickly pays the man. “You’ve never heard of the Beatles?” he asks, smiling as he hands the vendor a few dollars.  
“It wasn’t exactly something we were tested on back home.” She says quietly as they walk back to the train station.  
“Well when we get home I’ll-” he trips over his sentence and his shoelaces at the same time before she interrupts him. 

“Speaking of that,” she says quietly, readjusting her ponytail and looking up at him as they wait for the street light to change. He can just barely see her eyes through the tinted lenses of her glasses. “I wasn’t joking. About the handcuffs.”  
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, woman, do you know-”  
“I know exactly what I’m asking. And your reluctance is admirable but stupid.” He glares at her. Her eyes fall to his throat and she takes a half step closer.  
“I-“ she looks at her feet and takes a deep breath before meeting his eyes again. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me. I trust you. I-“ her voice cracks and his heart breaks a little. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”  
He shoves his hands in his pockets awkwardly and sighs, crossing the street. “I have a pair at my place.” He says praying she never asks why. 

“Thank you.” She puts a hand on his arm as they take the steps down to the station. He can’t tell if it’s the drop in temperature or the feel or her soft hands on his skin that gives him goosebumps but he tries to ignore it either way. “You know,” he says quietly as they stand near the yellow line on the platform. “It’s freaking me out a little how okay you are with this. Being restrained like that. It seems like the sort of thing you’d, you know, hate. A lot.”  
She shrugs. “It is but not for the reasons you think.” His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and he almost swallows his gum. She falls quiet as a train speeds past them, blowing litter along the tracks and whipping her hair around as she watches it leave. “As children they cuffed us to the beds.” She says calmly, the way other people say their parents spanked them and sent them to their room without dinner. His mouth falls open and he’s torn between being embarrassed that he does that every time she talks about Red Room and hoping he’s never any less horrified by Red Room than he has been these last few days. 

“As we got older, they’d sometimes trust us to do without them as a treat. Some of us got so used to them that they couldn’t sleep without it.” She blinks and he’s shocked to see tears in her eyes. “One day we woke up and a girl who hadn’t worn hers wasn’t in bed. She’d tried to run and they put a bullet between her eyes.” She blinks rapidly and Clint wants nothing more than to pull her to him but is a little afraid she’ll break if he does. “She was eleven.” He’s about to reach out to her when another train comes by and stops.  
She blinks and looks at it while he stares at her. “This is us.” 

They go to the empty end of the car and sit across from each other. “Nat. Tasha,” he sighs, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I would’ve never had them cuff you if-”  
She shakes her head. “Don’t apologize for protecting yourself and other agents from me the day we met, Clint. I was a caged animal. It’s a miracle I didn’t tear someone’s eyes out.”  
“But you must’ve been so freaked out-”  
“Clint. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve been restrained. I’m not afraid of being tied up. I know thirty six different ways to get out of cuffs alone. It’s the waking up bound that gets to me.” He takes her hand and she blinks down at their joint hands a little surprised. “Every time I wake up like that I think of her. I- I can’t even remember her name.” she bites her lip and looks up, blinking her tears away. It reminds him of what his mother did to stop crying. “She was blonde but she bled so much that her hair was the same color as mine when we buried her.” 

He pulls her hand closer and presses a kiss to her knuckles. “How can you tell me this and still expect me to cuff you to my living room table tonight?”  
“Because I trust you.” Her eyes slide away from his. “And because lately it’s the dreams of another little girl with a gunshot wound to the head that keep me awake at night.” Her hand grasps his tighter. “I can’t hurt you again. Please don’t let me.”  
“You-” he starts to say _‘You won’t’_ but the tenderness around his throat and her glassy eyes make him stop. _She doesn’t want to be lied to. She’d see right through it anyway._ “I won’t let you, Tasha.” She nods and pulls her hand from his, sitting back.  
A moment later she nudges his foot with hers. “I could help you build your neighbor’s cabinets today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nat’s stretching/ handstand/ acrobatics thing is inspired by the panels in pages 5 & 6 of Super Heroes #5. http://thequarterbin.com/2010/08/10/super-heroes-5/
> 
> Nylon fiber knives are a real (and shockingly cheap) thing that can go "through plywood like any nail" and are completely undetectable in metal detectors. To any NSA peeps checking my browser history, I swear to god, i am just a fanfic writer. https://www.selfdefenseproducts.com/product/cia-knife
> 
> The On the Water display is a real exhibit in the Smithsonian National Museum of American History in Washington, D.C. http://americanhistory.si.edu/onthewater/ 
> 
> The boat model they talk about is the Santa Maria built at the Museo Maritimo de Barcelona, Spain under the supervision of museum director Jose Maria Martinez-Hildalgo y Teran. http://americanhistory.si.edu/onthewater/collection/TR_325800.html
> 
> The flag they’re looking at is the original flag that flew over Fort McHenry in Baltimore during the war of 1812. At the time I’m writing this (2015) it’s 202 years old but since this story takes place around 2004, it’s only 191 years old here. It is currently housed in the Smithsonian National Museum of American History in a light and temperature controlled chamber. Read more about it here: http://www.si.edu/Encyclopedia_SI/nmah/starflag.htm and here: http://amhistory.si.edu/starspangledbanner/
> 
> The section about Captain America and the Howling Commandos is inspired by the scene in Captain America 2: The Winter Soldier, where Steve, then later Bucky visit it at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. Like many people, I feel that exhibit would’ve been more at home in the Smithsonian Museum of American History. In real life, the Museum of American History has been undergoing extensive renovation since 2012, with the first floor reopening on July 1, 2015. Since the film was made and takes place in 2014, it makes since that in in their world, because of how iconic and popular Captain America is, they would temporarily move the exhibit from the American History museum to the Air and Space museum until after the renovations…… TL;DR: I felt it was dumb in Cap 2 that the Captain America exhibit was in the Air and Space museum instead of the American History museum so I found evidence to support my theory for why it was in the American History museum in 2004 (when this chapter takes place) but in the Air and Space museum in 2014 when Cap visits in Cap 2. 
> 
> Clint’s sunglasses are intended to look like the ones he wears in Avengers Assemble. http://stepchildofthesun.tumblr.com/post/97222370020/loveholic198-the-touchy-feel-stuff-never
> 
> Natasha’s sunglasses are supposed to look like the one’s she wears in Name of the Rose #3. http://stepchildofthesun.tumblr.com/post/91872818150/clintbarttons-and-i-dont-have-time-to   
> They always reminded me of John Lennon’s iconic sunglasses: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/96123773268149328/ and http://www.magnificentbastard.com/posts/ask-the-mb-john-lennons-clip-on-sunglasses


End file.
